Re-Formation
by Cyn-and-Vivi
Summary: Part one of the Re-Formation Arc.
1. Prequel: Aftermath

"_It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things."_

-Lemony Snicket

The moment Sherlock had dropped his phone, John knew what was coming. Oh, he shouted, but the mindless terror took over the second Sherlock leaned forward and embraced gravity like an old friend. John started forwards, then got slammed from behind by that cyclist, his head slapping the pavement mercilessly and making everything just slightly more disorienting than it had been moments before.

The next clear thought he has is as he's grabbing Sherlock's wrist. His still-warm body was deceiving; the lack of pulse was not. There were no illusions, not with Sherlock's warm blood painting the pavement and sliding across his face. Those eyes-wondrous blue today, for the last time-were blank and cold. Nothing like when Sherlock was displeased and he would squint his deep blue eyes just a bit at the corners, or he was hiding something and his eyes would slide into a mischievous blue-green, or an impassive grey when people around him were being particularly stupid. But now those eyes were expressionless for the rest of time.

The rain mixes with Sherlock's blood on the pavement, diluting the life the detective had left in this world.

John's fingers fumble as he pulls out his phone. How long has he been standing in the rain? He's not sure. He dials up the one person who needs to be told, the one person who John cares enough to tell. It rings twice and is halfway through a third when he answers. "Greg," John chokes out.

"Jesus. Do you realize you're still a fugitive?" Greg asks, his hushed voice making the line crackle with static. "Where are you? Where's Sherlock?"

John chokes back a sob or a laugh, he's not sure which. "In the morgue," he answers.

"At Bart's?"

"Yeah," John sighs shakily. "I-you're not going to-you need to get here, Greg."

Over the line, John can hear a door close. "I'm coming; I'm on my way," Greg replies.

"No, you don't understand," John forces out. For some reason, it's important that he knows before he gets here. "He-he's dead."

There's silence on the line and John's staring at the pool of Sherlock's blood. "John, what?" Greg asks.

"He's dead. Sherlock."

"Christ, what happened? Jesus, Jesus," Greg inhales sharply before one last: "Jesus."

"I don't know, Greg. I don't know."

John knows he shouldn't be here, not really. Greg's already come and gone. But after he saw Sherlock jump, he had to see this to an end. So he's sitting out here, at the door beside the morgue, and he's been begging himself to get up and go inside for at least four hours. He doesn't want to see Sherlock laid out on a slab, but he feels like it's his duty to. And don't they need someone to identify the body? Could Molly do it, or would it be a conflict of interest?

The woman in question steps out into the hall with a box in her hands. She starts before making sure the door is fully closed. "John?" Molly asks, but doesn't follow it up with any other stupid questions.

"I need to see," John says, his voice small and cracked. He stops when he sees that Molly's lab coat is smeared with blood. She's buttoned it closed up to her neck, and the blood covers the expanse of her torso. John clenches his hands tight, his nails biting into his palms as he exhales and pushes whatever's left of his emotions away. Molly's watching him, her eyes full of compassion, but no ounce of pity, which is good. John can't stand pity right now. "I don't think," she says slowly, "that's a good idea."

"You-you didn't autopsy?" John asks.

"There wasn't a need to, but yes. I just-I had to put some things back in the right places. He-he needed to be put back together more than he needed to be taken apart," Molly replies. Her eyes are glassy and she looks down at the box. "These are his things. I was going to uhm, get rid of them, but please, you take them. He'd-he'd want you to have them."

She sets down the box next to John as if it were made of glass, and then touches John's hand as if it were just as fragile. "I'm so sorry, John," Molly chokes out before her tears spill over.

At any other time, John would have held Molly and let her cry, but he honestly can't think beyond his own stupid, breakable body except to think about Sherlock's stupid, broken body in the next room. John stands up, picks up the box and walks away from Molly. He can hear her still sobbing as she goes into the morgue.

Anthea catches John before he can leave the hospital. "I'm to take you home," she says, and it's a stupid parody of what she said the night this whole life started. But John lets Anthea lead him through the bowels of the hospital he remembers from his uni days until they're out on a side street. Once they're in the car and moving, John understands why: the hospital is literally swarming with press. His jaw clenches as he realizes that two-two-one-b will be, too.

It doesn't matter. Anthea takes him to Harry's flat without prompting. When John is sliding out of the car with the box clutched to his chest, she says idly, "We'll bring some of your things here tomorrow."

John nods, and goes to see if his sister's home.

John sits down that night, pressing his hands to his face in an effort to just keep it all in. He doesn't want to feel like this, numb but with pain, so much pain, but not enough to kill him like Sherlock. Sherlock who jumped off a building this morning and Sherlock whose blood is still on John's sleeve and Sherlock who lied to him, in those final moments, lied up on the roof and it split John open.

So he opens Harry's laptop and goes to his blog. Luckily, no one's commented on his old posts to ask what happened, though John suspects it might be Mycroft's doing. John types out, "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him" just to spite Sherlock one last time. He disables the comments and posts it.

He stands up and looks down at the stupid computer and shouts so loud that he thinks Sherlock can hear him from the drawer at Bart's, "I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE YOU!"

John stays with Harry for a bit. He's able to ignore her comings and goings while he stays in her spare room. He shouldn't really be here, but he can't go back to the flat. His lungs still seize up at the thought; he doesn't think he could handle seeing the place that Sherlock had filled to the brim with his vitality so _empty_.

It takes him a day, but in the end, John opens the box. The first thing he sees is Sherlock's scarf on top of his coat, both of them bloodstained. John lifts them and presses them to his face; underneath the coppery smell of blood is Sherlock's scent, a curious mix of chemicals and soap. It settles something inside of him a bit.

Next are Sherlock's keys and wallet and mobile. Seeing it, John stops. He doesn't know what to do; he feels like he might break if he touches it. It was the last thing Sherlock held before he died; it's his note. John can't look at it without his heart hammering. He stuffs everything back in the box and slams the flimsy cardboard lid on top.

As a second thought, John pulls out the scarf, smells it again, and puts it back.

Mycroft texts John a few days later.

_The funeral is set for Wednesday. MH_

John's phone is shaking in his hands when he replies.

_I can't. JW_

_I know. MH_

John's not surprised when his nightmares start up again. He has them one in every two nights, which is a lot more than usual. But then again, Sherlock never did anything by halves.

Sherlock is standing on the rooftop at Bart's. He calls John, and they talk before Sherlock falls.

Sherlock is at the pool, with Moriarty in front of him. He moves the gun and is shot by a sniper.

Sherlock is chasing after a suspect. An accomplice to the criminal manages to dent Sherlock's head with a baseball bat.

Sherlock is lying on the sofa in his pyjamas. He has a needle in his arm and his skin is waxy white.

Sherlock is at John's side, dressed in army fatigues. There's a firefight and Sherlock is hit, bleeding out onto the sand before John can get there.

After every dream, John gets up, pulls on his coat, and takes a walk. It doesn't help, but then again, nothing really does.

He doesn't go to the funeral, as promised. John doesn't want to see the fake grief outpouring from the people there. He knows Lestrade will go, and probably make Anderson and Donovan attend as well, rubbing their noses in the mess they had helped to create. John doesn't want to see that, either.

The worst thought is of Sherlock packed away in a box. Sherlock, with his whirling coat and quick run; the way he took the stairs two at a time; who caressed the violin like a long-lost lover; with smiles for John and quick retorts for Anderson; a harpoon in one hand and a beaker in the other; _that_ Sherlock placed in a box and trapped under the earth forever.

The thought made John shudder.

Harry is trying, really she is, and John knows it. So it doesn't bother him when she tells their parents exactly how John's doing. John can't bring himself to feel much of anything these days, anyway.

John hears on the news that Lestrade was demoted and is being forced into taking unpaid time off. Every case Sherlock was ever brought in on is being re-examined, which makes him bristle in Harry's armchair. John even feels bad for Lestrade until he remembers how his doubt helped Sherlock jump. John doesn't feel bad after that.

John jumps out of his skin when he sees Sherlock's face (well, deerstalker and coat lapel) on the front page of _The Times_, along with a picture of Moriarty from the stupid trial. Moriarty's body was found in the early hours of the morning in a meat locker in London. Cameras from St. Bart's on the morning Sherlock kill-jumped, captured Moriarty entering but not leaving. The newspaper is reporting that Moriarty apparently shot himself in the mouth, but his body was smuggled from Bart's and apparently moved quite a lot before ending up at the meat locker. No one is quite buying the story about Richard Brooke.

John is frustrated. Where was Moriarty? On the roof? Did he die up there? Why wasn't his body found? Why was the crime scene cleaned? Who was doing all of this? He's frustrated, because if Sherlock were alive, he'd be ten steps ahead already, and John would be by his side. Sherlock would be flying about London, hunting and gathering. Sherlock would be annoying the police. Sherlock would be two hours away from catching whoever did this.

But if Sherlock were here, then this wouldn't even be happening.

He answers all of the Yard's questions once they think to ask him. He refuses to come down to New Scotland Yard, but two Sergeants he's never seen before come to Harry's flat. John's in his pyjamas and dressing robe even though it's past three in the afternoon. He gives them a lot of abuse in general before he settles onto his sister's couch and answers the questions as honestly and as fully as he can.

When he's showing them out, John remarks about how it would be nice if the police could actually do their fucking jobs instead of wasting everyone's time, like their usual idiotic procedure. The Sergeants look scandalized; they'd no doubt been told that he was the nice one.

John slams the door in their faces and immediately feels horrible.

It's pouring outside as he sits in Ella's office. He doesn't remember making the appointment, but he must have because here he is.

"Why today?"

Ella's words break the silence they've been sitting in for the past five minutes. John had answered all of her stupid, banal questions before, about where he was living and what exactly happened to lead John here. When he answered her before, she simply nodded, scribbling down what looked to be random words, as if she was making a shopping list.

But at this question, John pauses, looking at her. Is she that stupid? He knew that Mycroft had told him that she had his diagnosis backwards, but really. She read his blog; she had made him start it in the first place. She should know why and not have to go through the motions of hearing him tell her what happened.

"Do you want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment."

"You read the papers?"

"Sometimes."

"And you watch telly." He pauses, letting her think about his blog, too. "You know why I'm here."

She raises her eyebrows at him.

"I'm here beca-" he chokes, stopping himself from saying it.

Ella leans forward in her chair, genuinely seeming to listen to him for the first time today.

"What happened, John?"

_I moved in with a madman. He brought me on cases. He brought me back to life, took care of my limp when you couldn't. He slotted into my life like he had been there all along. He became my best friend. He looked to me for expertise and help, sometimes, and that felt like the best thing in the world. He trusted me, or so I thought. He laughed with me. He ate with me. He drank tea with me. Our lives were simple. Not easy, God no, but simple. He ran and expected me to follow._

"Sher-" he started, throat catching again. There's a tightness in his chest that won't let him speak, though he takes in a breath and tries.

"You need to get it out," Ella gently prompts, which just makes John want to yell and vent, but he can't let himself do that.

"My best friend," he forces out, trying to will away the emotions he's feeling, "Sherlock Holmes." His fists clench; he can feel his fingernails bite into his palm and the physical pain feels so much better than the emotional. "Is dead."

Mycroft visits at Harry's. John supposes he should be surprised, but he really isn't.

"Sherlock willed most of his things to you," the older man says without preamble. "I haven't disturbed any of his things at your flat; and I have transferred the money in his accounts to yours, as his will specified."

John can't bring himself to say anything. What is there to say?

"I'll be needing his mobile for a week or so, but then you can have it back. In return, I brought these for you," Mycroft continues, holding up a manilla envelope and placing it on Harry's coffee table. John wordlessly goes into the spare room, digs out the phone, and gives it to Mycroft.

"Thank you," the Holmes brother says. John doesn't respond. Mycroft betrayed his brother to Moriarty for his own personal gain. He knows Mycroft's feeling guilty, if Holmeses can feel guilt, but that doesn't particularly matter to him.

John knows this is one thing he will never forgive. It will sit inside of him, burning him for the rest of his life. His anger is pointless and stupid, but John can't-won't-stop it. It's not for him, it's for Sherlock. Sherlock will never be able to forgive his brother if he had known what Mycroft did, so John will gladly hold that grudge for his best friend.

He doesn't want to go, but Mrs. Hudson needs him. So he gets in the cab with her and her flowers, because he knows he's like a second son to her. John knows she needs him by her side to visit her first son.

She says her goodbyes, tries to cover her grief with anger until she leaves John to say his goodbyes. He doesn't want to, but he also doesn't want to have to listen to an old woman try and deny that she adored Sherlock.

John tries to tell his best friend everything his therapist wants him to say, but he doesn't know that he does. He honestly doesn't remember what he says until he places his hand on the cold, black marble and says, "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

He turns away. He doesn't know what to do now. Sherlock never liked sentiment; he scoffed at it. "There's just one more thing, one more thing, Sherlock," John says suddenly, turning back. "One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Could you do that? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this."

John can almost see Sherlock sighing and shaking his head. John wants to shout, wants to yell, but they both know that won't bring the detective back to life. Sherlock stands by his grave, impassive, frowning slightly as if he doesn't understand. John can't help it; tears fill his eyes and he bends slightly, trying to contain the emotion. He allows himself three sobs and two tears before he wipes his eyes and stands straight and tall again. He pushes his grief deep, forcing it into a burning rage inside of him, because John can deal with rage, if he has to feel anything. He nods and turns away from the grave, marching off.

He doesn't notice the pain in his right leg, or the way he automatically adjusts his weight so he's limping ever so slightly.

John finally opens the manilla envelope Mycroft gave him with shaking hands. He tugs out the glossy photos, curious and dreading. He knows that there is only one man's photos that Mycroft could give him.

John actually thinks his heart stops beating when he looks at them. Sherlock's body, laying on the slab. Just seeing his best friend like that rips a hole in John's chest the size of a grapefruit. It physically (psychosomatically) hurts so much that John bends over and puts his hand on it, and stays like that on Harry's couch for a long time.

It feels like hours before John can straighten himself up again to actually look at the photos. They turn out to be after Molly stitched Sherlock up; he can see the thread in Sherlock's chest. The body is bruised, bloody, and destroyed. Molly did her best of course, but that doesn't mean she can magically fix a body from a seven story fall.

John wants to pack them away, but they are the only photos he has of Sherlock. The man was always so camera-shy, and anyway, their private lives didn't need many mementos. But John wishes he has one, just one, of Sherlock alive.

He clutches the morgue photos to that bleeding hole in his chest. This, a scarf, a coat, and a broken soldier are what Sherlock has left in the world.

"John, it's been two months," Harry's saying, and it startles John a bit. He doesn't remember it that way. He remembers bits and pieces, but not the steady progression of time. It feels like his life stopped when Sherlock's did, and now he's out of touch. The world dropped him outside of St. Bart's and it hasn't yet picked him up again.

"I know you're hurting a lot right now." Wrong, John doesn't feel anything anymore. "It's really difficult to watch you like this." Is it? "You don't talk anymore, you don't smile, you barely eat, you hardly come out of the spare room." That's all true, John supposes. His life isn't measured in smiles or meals anymore. "You're beginning to scare me." Wrong. John knows that Harry's been scared for a while now. "I know what it's like, to lose a loved one. When Clara-"

It's really that that makes John snap. It's like a switch has been flipped inside of him, because how dare Harry think she knows what this grief is? John doesn't even know and he's the one feeling it. John shouts, really yells at Harry, mostly because she's presumptuous, but also partly because she's there.

"You think you know everything, don't you? God, you have always done this, even when we were bloody kids! Well, let me tell you something, Harry: getting a divorce is not the same thing as watching your best friend commit suicide in front of you! Clara's still there, still alive, and you're still drinking yourself into a stupor every night, which, guess what, is why she left you in the first place!" John slams down a plate into Harry's sink; it shatters into pieces.

"Jesus! I got to watch Sherlock, the man who literally knew all of my bloody secrets, jump off a building, and you're sitting there, thinking that stupid divorce is worse? Oh, you and Clara had a few fights and decided to split up? Well, how sad for you, Harry, really. It must have broken your heart. I'm sure my grief can't possibly compare with Harriet Katherine Watson's! Obviously you were an angel sent here by God to suffer for all of us! One divorce after a year of marriage and you are suffering _so much_ that you need to drown yourself every night!" Harry's shrunk down to sit on her couch under the force of John's words. She's clearly terrified of what she's unleashed and John can't find any fucks to give.

Harry's crying as John packs a bag and leaves.

John limps up the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson follows him. "I'll make you a cuppa," she offers, setting one of John's bags inside the door. John doesn't answer her as he looks about the sitting room. Their chairs are still there, as is Sherlock's violin and laptop. Mrs. Hudson has cleared out most of the mess of papers, straightened the books, but she's left the skull. What's missing is the sense of danger mingled with domesticity. Nothing's changed, and everything's changed.

"I'm so glad you're back," Mrs. Hudson says, handing John his mug. "I missed you."

"I-I missed you, too," John replies, because he knows it's the polite thing to say. At the same time, he doesn't know how to continue conversations anymore, so the silence stretches between John and Mrs. Hudson as they drink their tea.

She puts her mug in the sink and says, "I'll just leave you to it, I suppose. I'll bring up some dinner later, dear."

John nods and listens as she makes her way down the stairs. He stares at the black leather chair and can almost see Sherlock sitting in it. It's unnerving and it hurts in a way that it shouldn't, after all these months.

He limps over to the desk and pulls out the right hand drawer. John's gun is still there, inconspicuously hidden at the back, under some bank statements. He pulls it out, then fishes in the drawer for the magazine. He finds it and slides it into place. John levels it at the wall, where the yellow smiley face still looms. Slowly, his heart pounding furiously in his ears, he turns it to rest at his temple. He closes his eyes and breathes.

John puts the gun back in the drawer, still loaded, just in case.

The flat is so _empty_.

When John wakes up the next morning, he makes two cups of tea before he remembers that only one is needed.

Lestrade comes to the flat and waits until John acknowledges him with a glance before he starts speaking.

"John, I'm sorry, mate," he starts off. "For everything with Sherlock. I should have argued more, I should have done something, anything. I never wanted anything to happen to Sherlock, and I honestly didn't think that he had a part in any of those crimes he solved for us. My hands were tied but I should have tried to do more."

John doesn't say anything. He absolutely agrees with Lestrade, on all accounts. He got played by Moriarty, Donovan, and Anderson. One genius and two idiots led a smart man astray, and John places all of the blame squarely on Lestrade's shoulders.

"Look, let me buy you a drink," the older man sighs, which is how they end up at a pub, watching rugby on the telly.

"I used to play rugby," John says suddenly. It's the second thing he's said all night, the first being his drink order to the bartender.

"Really? I didn't pin you for a player. What position?" Lestrade asks.

John takes a sip of his lager. He hand is shaking again. It hasn't been steady for a while now. "Scrum half," he replies.

"No shit?" Lestrade looks impressed; John just shrugs. He doesn't know why people don't assume he's threatening; he was in the army and is a rather accomplished marksman. He's a younger brother and an older one, so he's been in his fair share of fights. Despite his relatively small stature, he can bring almost anyone down. Greg doesn't see all that, he never has. Sherlock took it all in at first glance and never let John forget it.

The flat is less empty after a few drinks.

The first time is an accident. John's cane slips and he stumbles over a fold in the rug, slamming his hip into his chair. He grits his teeth at the pain, and then realizes that he can actually feel something.

The second time is not an accident. John swings his leg out and slams his shin into the coffee table. And he's proud, actually proud of himself, because this is so much safer than a blade.

The third time is brutal. John slams himself into the doorframe of his bedroom. The pain lasts for days, and the memory of it lasts longer.

The fourth, fifth, sixth times are blurry. John loses count because he needs to hurt so often. Shins. Elbows. Knees. Feet. Fists. Hips. Shoulders. Arms. Eventually his body becomes peppered with bruises and it hurts, but feels like a satisfied sigh at the same time.

John tries to write on his blog, he really does. His older brother Thomas just called and asked him about it, chit chatting with him. It didn't make John feel less like a shell of a person; it didn't make him feel anything. It's been months now. How many? Three, perhaps four. Time doesn't move for John anymore. Thomas told him that his wife, Emma, is pregnant again. John congratulated them but felt like it didn't matter anyway.

John's coming back from Tesco when he sees one of the Homeless Network on the street. She's pretty banged up, so John takes her back to the flat, patches her up, and gives her some food. The next day, a young boy shows up, and John does the same. The day after, it happens again. People need his help, so he gives it. He's a doctor and that's what he's been trained to do.

He finds that he has more patients now than he did when he was working for the surgery.

Harry comes by every day, every damn day, to yell at John. John just closes and locks the door, ignoring Harry until he finally gets annoyed enough to throw something at the wall-usually a book, but whatever's in reach. Harry stops yelling and leaves then.

Sometimes Mrs. Hudson comes up afterwards, and they sit in silence for a while. She never says anything stupid, like it's going to be alright. They both know that it's not.

John goes for walks a lot now, even if he has to use his cane. The weather is colder, which makes him feel better. Nothing should be comfortable for him anymore. He doesn't deserve it, not when Sherlock's in the cold ground.

Sometimes he walks out to Sherlock's grave and spends the night there. He knows that the cemetery's off-limits at night, but he doesn't very much care. It feels right to John, to be using Sherlock's gravestone as a pillow. It feels right to know that he's as close as he can get to his best friend.

There's a particular kind of stillness that happens in only two incidents. The first is the stillness before battle. John's been through that many times over his two-and-a-half tours in Musa Qala. It's the quiet calm of knowing that the unknown is going to hurtle at you at any moment. You can check your weapons, go over your battle tactics, and pray. But in the end, you do not know if things are ever going to be quite this way or not.

The second time that stillness comes is after the battle. John counts this in many ways. It's after people have stopped fighting out in the desert, yes, but it's also after your patient dies. It's a terrible hollowness that won't stop eating at you and pestering you with what-ifs. John used to be very good at telling the what-ifs to bugger off.

He's not thinking of the what-ifs now because there was nothing he could do to help Sherlock. Everything happened according to Sherlock's plan and in the end, John doesn't want to change that. So no, there aren't any what-ifs. But there is the terrible hollowness, and it's been sticking around for months now.

John doesn't remember what it was like to live without it.

John stares at the page, trying to come up with something to blog about. He glares as if this will make the words suddenly appear. He realizes that he can see someone in the reflection of the computer. The person looks haggard, like they haven't been sleeping. Their skin is hanging a bit off their face as if there's too much skin and not enough fat. The hair is dirty and shaggy, from what he can see, but the eyes are the worst bit. With a start, he recognizes himself and slams the laptop closed.

John hates the way his eyes looked as blank as Sherlock's.

John's limping home from Tesco when he hears it. He follows it to the source, a player on the street with his case open for money. John looks at the violin tucked under the man's chin-it's very much like Sherlock's, but then again, John doesn't know the differences between makes and models. He holds the bow differently at least; Sherlock held it more naturally, like he was letting it guide him in the song. And the street player is younger, stockier, with ginger hair that falls flat in his eyes. He is nothing like Sherlock.

That doesn't stop the memories from coming. Sherlock at the window, playing thoughtfully. Sherlock pausing to write down the next bits of his composition. Sherlock sitting in his chair, plucking away as he thought. A million mundane memories hit John like a physical blow. He feels it in his chest, in his leg, in his head, in his shoulder. He staggers against the wall nearby so hard it bruises, which helps push the memories away and calms John at the same time.

He doesn't want to have to go back to the flat. He wants to walk away and never look back. He wants so badly to feel and not to feel. He wants to walk across the Afghan desert and let someone else decide if he lives or dies.

John limps back to the flat, leaning heavily on his cane. He gets into the building but can't force himself up the stairs, so he sits in foyer and watches the milk he just bought spoil.

Greg comes over to watch the football match and celebrate the fact that he's been promoted back and reinstated. Both of them know it's due to some of Mycroft's influence, but neither of them mentions it. John is coming out of the kitchen, clutching beers for them both, when he stumbles. His leg catches the corner of the telly stand and rips open his jeans and skin. John swears before asking, "Greg, could you get me a plaster? They're in the first aid kit under the sink."

Greg goes and returns in time to see John rolling up his jeans leg. John holds out his hand for the bandage, finally looking up when Greg doesn't put it in his hand. John opens his mouth to ask what's wrong before he realizes that Greg can see his leg. The cut is nothing, but the bruises are impressive. John bites down on his lip before he demands, "Plaster. Now, please."

"Holy fuck, John," Greg says, ignoring John's outstretched hand. "What are you doing?"

John pulls the bandage out of Greg's hold and applies it to the cut on his shin. Yes, his skin looked as if someone wanted to paint John with bruises, because someone did. "I put a plaster on my cut, that's all," John answers, rolling down the leg of his jeans once more.

"But John-"

"That's _all_," John says in his Captain's voice. Greg shuts his mouth and turns back to the telly. He doesn't say a word for the rest of the night and goes home at half-time. John is grateful; he needs to hurt again.

He stopped in the Criterion as a last ditch effort, and John is honestly surprised that he didn't think of trying this before. He orders his tea and sits down for the wait until he's called to get it.

John starts when someone places their hand on his shoulder, but he turns and sees that it's just Molly. She looks well, except if maybe a bit pale at seeing John. But still, she smiles at him and slides into the seat across from him.

"How are you, John?" she asks, and John looks at her like she's crazy. He hasn't cut his hair in five months, he rarely leaves his flat, he honestly can't remember the last time he's had a shower, and oh yeah _he watched his best friend dive off a fucking roof._

Molly winces at what she sees on his face, but plows on. "I'm doing alright. Work is still...work. No new boyfriend or anything," she continues. She hesitates before she reaches for John's hand. "John," she says, her voice all compassion. "He wouldn't want you to live like this without him. If he knew how you were...not living, I think he would yell at you for it."

John blinks at her. Molly's right, of course. Sherlock would hate seeing John this way, seeing John use the cane. "He's not here," John replies, standing up and leaning on his cane. "He can't see what I do without him. Even when he was alive, he couldn't do that."

He leaves her there, thinking on the way back to Baker Street that he's probably not fit for company anymore.

_You've ruined me, Sherlock._

John's washing dishes when a woman on the telly interrupts the commercial that's playing. "...James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, who was known for his manipulation of everyone he encountered," the news reporter is saying. "Tonight a sound recording of his, and the late Sherlock Holmes's, last moments was released. The recording released had Moriarty confessing that he had snipers trained on people close to Holmes who would shoot if the detective didn't commit suicide. More to this story at eleven."

He hears, as clearly as if Sherlock were in the room, _"You, John. He was going to kill you."_

John slams his hands over his ears and shakes his head, trying to dislodge Sherlock's voice. He knocks over his chair in his haste, but the pain that flares does nothing to comfort. Because Sherlock was supposed to live because of John. John was supposed to save Sherlock, to be his protector because God knows he needed one. Sherlock was not supposed to die because of John.

Mrs. Hudson appears by his side and pulls him into an embrace. She holds him as dry sobs wrack through his chest. It's okay to do this with her because she understands. Sherlock probably died to save her, too. Who else? Mycroft? Lestrade? Molly? The report had said that it was more than one person, hadn't it?

It's months later, but Moriarty still has a web, and he's still making the thread to John's world jump and spill over.

The only good thing about the report is that public opinion suddenly swings back to Sherlock's favor. The Yard has come out and said that none of the cases Sherlock closed were actually committed by him. People whom he helped are coming out of the woodwork, usually saying something like, "He was really rude, but utterly brilliant" to start off their admission.

The press descend on two-two-one-b again, so Mrs. Hudson is forced to use the back door to the flat once more. John doesn't go out, instead letting Mrs. Hudson nip down to the shops for him. He closes the drapes and hides in his own flat.

There's an outpouring of support on Sherlock's message boards. Fans are posting up pictures of graffiti or flyers that they've made. They all bear one of two phrases, "Moriarty was real" or "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." One or two get posted that say, "I'm a member of Watson's Warriors."

John honestly has no idea what to make of it, but he finally puts a message on his blog, thanking people for their support of his friend.

He goes home, back to Felixstowe for Christmas. John hasn't been in contact, real contact with his family since before he left for Afghanistan. So he lets his mother coddle him for a bit before his brothers and sister arrive, and then he smiles and shams that he's fine for his nieces. He takes them upstairs and reads to them a lot, putting on the voices for each character. It's the only family interaction he can stand.

He's sitting in his old bedroom, watching the snow fall one afternoon when Allison, his older niece, comes up to him. John reaches down and pulls her up onto his lap; she settles so that she is facing him. Allison puts her small hand on John's cheek, and in her infinite six year old wisdom says, "You're not crying, but you're sad."

John pulls her close for a hug and squeezes his eyes shut.

Sherlock's birthday is spent at the bottom of a bottle. It ends with John getting into a truly fantastic bar brawl and getting thrown out onto the street. A slick black car picks him up and takes him home, and John doesn't say a word.

It's late one January afternoon that John gets the call that Emma is in labor. He boards the next train and manages to arrive at the hospital before his new niece or nephew does. It's less than an hour in the waiting room with his parents, his nieces, Harry, and his younger brother Mike before Thomas announces the birth of their baby girl, Charlotte. The Watsons celebrate all around; John even manages a genuine smile.

Two hours later, and John is holding his newest niece. She's swaddled tightly, and her head is covered with a pink cap. Charlotte is sleeping, so John can't see her blue newborn eyes. Her nose, he thinks, is all Thomas but her lips are Emma's. She'll have a stunning smile when she's older and has teeth to show off.

It's with a jolt that John realizes today is the day, two years ago, that he met Sherlock. He hasn't thought about him all day, in fact. It seems surreal to John; Sherlock has been the focal point of his mind since they met in the lab at Bart's. He's a bit scared, if he's willing to admit it to himself, that he's losing his best friend a bit more. But at the same time, he's relieved that maybe that part of his life was over, since it just hurts to think about it now.

If any of his family members notice the tear or two that slips down his cheek, they don't say anything.

Thomas and Emma ask John to move in with them for a few weeks, just until they get adjusted to life with three daughters. John accepts, more than relieved to escape London a bit. Baker Street has gotten better, it honestly has, but it's still a bit of a mausoleum. No one from two-two-one-b has been living, really living there, in a long time. So John goes out to Islington to help his family. He does laundry and grabs groceries, gets the girls from school and makes sure that they both do their homework while Thomas and especially Emma get back in the swing of having a newborn.

Leah, now the middle child, has been running around the house for the past five minutes, and even though John told her to slow down, she won't. So he's not entirely surprised when he hears a bang come from the dining room. Instead, he grabs two of the plasters he'd pulled out and limps over to find Leah.

She's having a bit of a wobbly, but John just sighs, maneuvers himself onto the floor, and pulls her leg into his lap. "I told you you'd hurt yourself, remember?" he asks, rolling up his sleeves before exposing the cut on her ankle. Leah sniffles but nods, so John bandages her wound and pats her leg. "Next time, please remember to listen, alright?"

Leah nods again, and John brushes away the tears that have fallen. "Uncle John? Could you please kiss it?" she asks, clinging to John's jumper. John doesn't hesitate before lifting her ankle and pressing a kiss to the plaster. He tickles under her knee when he's done, and Leah shrieks happily. John moves to get up, but Leah stops him. "Wait wait, your turn, Uncle John," she says.

John's confused at first, but then Leah brings his bruised arm up to her lips, kisses each bruise, and does the same to his other arm. When she's done, she gives him a brief hug before going upstairs to show off her plasters.

Emma and John have long chats when they're alone, or at least, when they're holding Charlotte. Emma asks just the right questions to get John talking. What was Sherlock actually like? What was it like living with him all the time? These are the simple questions that are easy enough to answer; everyone asks them and it's honestly effortless to think about the mundane times they shared. Sometimes they make John laugh when he remembers certain things; like how Sherlock was the one to plop the Santa hat on the skull at Christmas, or how Sherlock always insisted that the victim killed himself in Cluedo.

Emma waits a few days before she asks the inevitable: "What happened? With the last adventure, I suppose."

It takes John a few minutes to answer. He delays it with picking up his niece's toys and putting them away. Emma's patient, she has to be with three girls, so she doesn't mind waiting while John puts his thoughts in order.

"Moriarty was always fascinated by Sherlock," he starts, settling next to his sister-in-law on the couch. "He broke into the three most secure places in London just so he would have a trial and Sherlock would testify against him. Sherlock helped him promote his business, in a way. But then Moriarty arranged for those kids to get kidnapped, the ambassador's ones, do you remember? Well, Sherlock found them, and the police started to think that Sherlock had a hand in it. They arrested him, and I went with him."

"You haven't told anyone that," Emma comments mildly. "Though Mummy Kate would have a fit if she knew, so I can see why you didn't."

John grins slightly. "Yeah, Mum would have a time of it. But we escaped custody-I know, I know, running from the Yard is never good-and we found out that Moriarty was being passed off as an actor, Richard Brooke. Moriarty convinced that woman who wrote the expose on Sherlock, and he was her 'source.' We split up after Moriarty escaped from the woman's flat, and we met up at Bart's.

"We were just waiting around, trying to figure everything out, when I got the call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot," John says slowly, squeezing his hands into fists. Emma looks shocked, so John shakes his head to hold back her questions. "I left immediately; Sherlock didn't come and I was furious. I-I called him a machine," he admits, and it feels like he just confessed to killing the Prime Minister. John can't bring himself to look at Emma, which is good because he thinks he's crying now.

"I went to our flat. When I got there, Mrs. Hudson was fine. It was all a set up, so I rushed back to Bart's, but by then, Sherlock was on the roof. He-he called me. Told me it was his note." Emma reaches out and grabs his hand. The slightest pressure fills him with enough strength to press forward. "He tried to tell me that it was a lie. That he was playing me the whole time. I told him I didn't believe him, and I still don't, but he dropped the phone and jumped anyway," John manages to get out before the pressure in his chest stops him from speaking more. It overwhelms him until Emma pulls him close and lets him rest his head on her shoulder. It feels a bit like she's coaxing the grief out of him as if she was the doctor and draining him of an infection.

If this is what moving on feels like, John thinks it might not be so bad.


	2. Prequel: The Fragile Thread

Sherlock sat on the floor of the morgue. His eyes burned, his chest hurt, he felt like he was going to vomit. Molly was there, her arms wrapped around him. His head was pressed against her chest. He could hear her heart beat. He wanted to move his head. He wanted to push her away; instead he clutched her closer. There was blood everywhere. It was all over him and now all over her. Her jumper would be ruined, he thought absently. She would have to throw it out. His clothes were soaked in blood too; not his own, someone else's. A plant. It was all part of the plan.

The plan had gone perfectly.

Why did he feel like this?

He was sobbing, he realized. It was strange; he felt a disconnect. His mind and his body were in two different places. His body was grieving, his mind was numb. He thought of John's fingers taking his pulse. He buried his face in Molly's ruined, bloody jumper. He sobbed harder.

Eventually, he sobered enough to move. He stripped out of his clothes and settled himself on the autopsy table, closing his eyes. Molly told him she was just going to do a few things with makeup; make it look convincing. He grabbed her hand as he went to apply the fake incision to his chest.

"Do it," he told her, the first words he remembers saying.

She protested. He was in enough pain. "Do it, or I'll do it myself." She must have seen something in his eyes, because she picked up a scalpel. It was only the first few layers of skin; enough to make him bleed. Enough to make it look real. He never made a sound, but the pain made him feel real. She cleaned the cuts and stitched him closed, her eyes steely. She hated herself. He hated he'd done this to her. To all of them.

_It was necessary._

Molly pulled the thin sheet up to his shoulders, then used her powders to give him a deathly pallor; it didn't take much. All he had to do was lie there, she told him, she was just going to take a few pictures for his file. It wasn't necessary, but if an ID was needed she could give them the photos to use. Bart's had plenty of information on him though to make a positive ID.

Besides, no one would contest his suicide.

He was dressed in the clothes of a corpse. Molly had taken his things away. Too recognizable. He sat on the cold metal of the autopsy table, staring down at trousers that weren't his and boots that weren't his and was feeling entirely not himself. Molly was gone. He was supposed to wait. She told him to wait. She'd be right back. Getting rid of his things, she said. Getting rid of Sherlock Holmes. He was no one, now. An everyman. A no-man.

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He imagined the face of his friend. _You did the right thing. You saved John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade._

_John..._

The doors opened and Molly reentered, tears streaming down her face. He didn't know how long she'd been gone. It felt like forever. It felt like no time at all. She's been crying. He found it hard to feel concerned as to why, though not because he didn't care. It hurt too much to feel the concern. It hurt the emptiness that sat in his chest.

"I saw John," she sniffed, and he stiffened. She wiped her eyes and straightened her back. She was trying to be strong. Poor, sweet Molly. She swallowed her tears, but was shaking her head. Not good. "I gave him your things. Your coat, your scarf."

He stared at her. He wasn't sure what he said, he couldn't feel his face move, couldn't hear his own voice.

"He needed them, Sherlock. Needed something of you. I lied to his face, I had to give him something! Better he take them than they go to the incinerator."

Sherlock felt himself nod. John had his things. That was good. Molly said it was good. He needed them. Needed something. John deserved better than that, but Sherlock couldn't think of what that could be.

He'd made sure John lived, so far. It was time to ensure that fact.

Moriarty's web was going to be undone.

Sherlock would keep John alive if it killed him.

Molly snuck him out a back entrance. He was wearing a hat and spectacles and a coat that didn't fit properly. She had even cut his hair differently. He felt foreign inside his own skin. It was perfect.

Inside his coat pocket was a wad of cash. It was an almost obscene amount of money; his methods of procurement were positively shameful, but absolutely necessary. Dead men had no use of money and where he was going he would have no use of cards. He couldn't risk being tracked. His phone had been left in the box, now in John's possession. For the better. He wouldn't have any need for that either.

He wondered if John would find the recording.

It was amazing how easily people forgot faces; the slightest change could make someone look a familiar person over. Spectacles, a knit cap, a tattered coat; he looked just like one of his Homeless Network. The perfect disguise. He stood at a distance, watching the funeral procession. It was a quiet affair, with small attendance. Mycroft was there, unsurprising. Anthea as well, her mobile nowhere in sight; actually surprising that she had the decency to put the device away. Mrs. Hudson was crying into the shoulder of the funeral director. Lestrade and the rest of his team stood apart from everyone else, shame hung over them like a cloud. Mummy was present, not so surprising, standing next to Mycroft with steely resolve. He thought he saw a trembling in her lips, redness around her eyes, but she was a Holmes and she kept her composure, even when burying youngest son in the ground. Even Molly, who knew the truth, stood dutifully by his grave.

John was curiously, _surprisingly,_ not there.

Sherlock felt a clenching in his chest. To fix it, he cut out his stitches.

He visited the graveyard daily, hoping, perhaps fruitlessly, that John would come visit the empty hole where Sherlock's body was supposedly lain.

He wanted to see him. He needed to see John one last time, even though John wouldn't see him. He had done all this for his friend. He _needed_ to see him. He just needed to see John alive.

Eventually, John came. He came with a teary Mrs. Hudson and flowers.

Mrs. Hudson cried and yelled at the empty grave, channeling her grief into other, more satisfying things. John was silent. So very silent.

He stood for a while after Mrs. Hudson walked off, her piece done.

John spoke and Sherlock felt it inside his head like pressure. John's words filled him up. John was alive, he was unhappy, but he was alive. Sherlock half listened to what John said, mostly focusing on the pitches and intonations. He wanted to memorize the sound of John's voice, keep it with him. It would be a long time before he ever heard it again. If he ever heard it again.

There was one thing. One thing that yanked him back into awareness.

"There's just one more thing, one more thing, Sherlock. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Could you do that? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this."

_Don't be dead._

Sherlock leaned back against the tree, staring determinedly into the distance. His resolve was like a blade inside him.

_I'll try, John. For you, I'll try._

He sat on the train, head down, body curled in on itself. A backpack was trapped between his knees and his chest. Inside the backpack was all he had left; the money, a journal, pens, a change of clothes, a stolen pistol. He'd added a ratty hoodie to his disguise; he looked and felt like a homeless man. For all intents he was. He couldn't go home again. He'd already waited too long to truly leave it.

He hugged his legs a little tighter, glaring at the floor across from him. He was going to tear down every last thread of Moriarty's web.

Every. Last. Thread.

A month and a half after his death, Sherlock had tracked down the first of the three gunmen. It had taken him six weeks of following leads, gathering information, _questioning, hunting, testing, failing_, to finally narrow down one. Charla Milverton; a mercenary for hire. A favourite of Moriarty's. She'd held the gun on Lestrade. She was the first stop on a long journey.

He'd found her on a market street in Hannover, Germany. It was almost poetic in a way; the fallen "Reichenbach Hero", in Germany for his revenge, the revenge of his friends.

Milverton saw through his disguise; she was not happy to see him. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost. She may as well have.

She pulled a gun from within her coat and shot at him before he could disappear. The bullet winged him in the arm, splitting him open at the shoulder. He hissed, diving out of the way toward shelter. People were screaming and running, it was chaos. Milverton swore loudly at him, her voice growing closer.

"Come on out, you bastard. I don't know how you're not dead, but I'm going to fix that."

He crept behind a row of vehicles, slipping behind a stall on the street. She was on the hunt now, he could see her searching for him. She didn't realize he was already behind her. He was staring at her back; a perfect advantage.

He crept up behind her, using the crowd's noise as a cover. He threw an arm around her neck and grabbed her gun arm with the other, twisting it up to where she couldn't do any harm. She struggled to break his grip, then reached up and dug her fingers into the gun wound she'd just given him, bringing a pained scream from his throat. In response he twisted her gun arm further, shoving the rest of her away from him so that her shoulder was wrenched painfully.

She dropped her weapon. _Advantage, increase 10% in his favour._

Milverton whirled on him as soon as he released her, bringing her elbow crashing across his face hard enough to split his lip. They fought, exchanging blow after blow, a trained fighter against a trained killer. He kicked her in the ribs. She punched him in the stomach. He backhanded her. She kicked his legs out from under him, knocking him to the ground. His head bounced off the pavement, the pain blinding him for a moment. He felt wetness where his head had hit the ground.

Sirens began singing in the distance.

She swore again, grabbing him by the ankles and dragging him down the street, to where he had no idea. He was vaguely surprised at how strong she was, but the thought was lost in the desperate scramble as he twisted on the ground, trying to reach the stolen pistol in his waistband. His clothes rode up as she yanked him along the pavement, scraping up his back and side. He heard the gun slide loose, clattering on the ground.

She heard it too.

She dropped his legs. He grabbed his gun.

_Advantage, increase in his favour, 60%. _

_Odds of success; 100%_

She leapt for the gun. He pulled the trigger.

The sirens wailed closer. Her body sank to the ground beside him, blood rushing out of the hole he'd just put in her chest, painting the pavement red, red, red.

It was over in a matter of minutes.

Sherlock stood, shoving the gun in his coat pocket and running down the street, away from the scene. He was bleeding and shaking. The gun felt like lead, heavy as sin. His first kill. The first death at his hands. He was shaking. He felt ill. He ran.

He didn't stop until he got back to the dirty hovel of a motel room he'd rented. He stripped out of this clothes roughly, exposing his wounds to the air. The sight of the gun wound tipped him over the edge. A few inches would have meant his life. She hadn't had that chance; those few inches. He'd shot her. He killed her.

He vomited in the sink.

_He was in his mind palace, standing in his bedroom. It was safe. Quiet. Peaceful. Here was all the things important, all the things he cherished. Material possessions were gone, his mind and memories remained._

"_First time you've been here in a while."_

_He turned around, surprised. A voice so familiar. A face so well-known._

"_John."_

_His friend smiled. Not his friend. Here. Not here. A compilation of memories, grown from a seed of desperation. A figment. A creation._

"_You must be desperate if you brought me here." John sat in an armchair, his leg crossed so that his ankle rested on his knee._

_Sherlock frowned. "You wouldn't understand."_

"_You never let me understand."_

_He buried his face in his hands. "I did it to protect you."_

"_I know. For being such a genius, you can be a bloody idiot, you know that?"_

Sherlock opened his eyes. His hands were on his face. He had John. He always had John.

The next step was much simpler, and yet much more delicate. Infiltration. Exposition. He was already hunting down the next gunman, and in the meantime he would take apart Moriarty's crime force. Suppliers, tacticians, paid labor. Wealthy businessmen and poor men alike. He wouldn't kill them, no. They had done him no personal affront. They were merely tools at Moriarty's disposal. He would instead let them rot in jail, in favour of rotting in the ground. It seemed fair.

He posed as a janitor, a worker, a day-labourer. The lowdown and the dirty. The one no one looked too hard at, but who heard everything. This was how he got his data, and with insider's information and anonymous tip-offs, one by one they fell.

He never saw the arrests take place, merely read about them in the newspapers. He never stayed around long enough to see the end result of his work. He was already on to the next target.

It had been eighteen weeks and three days since he'd jumped. One hundred and twenty nine days. Sherlock counted to himself. Counted how long he'd been away. How many days it had been since he'd seen Real John, not just Mind Palace John.

In one hundred and twenty nine days he'd killed one gunman, put away two suppliers responsible for funding Moriarty's endeavors, and countless other small time criminals that had been used for his dirty work.

One gunman dead out of three was still two gunmen alive.

"_You can do better than that," John told Sherlock when he closed his eyes; when he escaped away from the hell hole he was living in. It was a blessing to see the beautiful walls of his Palace bedroom, to see the familiar, crinkled face of his friend, as opposed to the empty, hideous shelter papered with dirty files and crumpled photos where he hid._

"_I'm trying. I'm only one man," Sherlock answered bitterly._

"_You need someone else," John said, the corners of his mouth curling. He seemed satisfied with the knowledge that Sherlock actually _needed_ someone._

_Sherlock frowned at the truth of it. "I told you I was lost without my blogger."_

"_You have me," John answered, leaning forward in his seat in the desk chair._

_Sherlock stared. "I do."_

"_Take care of yourself. Work hard. Stay safe. I still want you to come home. I only asked you for one thing, Sherlock. Remember that."_

Sherlock came back to himself suddenly, sitting on the edge of his cot. His hands were gripping the frame so tightly his knuckles were white. John had only asked one thing of him.

_Don't be dead._

A scrap of paper slid under the door; his Austrian contact. He stood, picking up the note. It held only two words, that would have little significance to anyone if they didn't know the purpose.

_Taranto, Italy._

He began to tear his collection from the walls in earnest, shoving them into his backpack. Pens, papers, notebook, meager supplies, dwindling cash; all of his possessions fit in the bag so easily tossed on his back or into a corner. He was one step closer. One precious step closer. To Italy then. He owed a man a visit.

He sat in the baggage car of the train, crouched among suitcases and trunks and bags. The pistol was in his hand, clutched tightly against him. His backpack full of evidence and few possessions was behind him, sheltered between his body and the wall. He was the picture of a desperate man.

He was definitely a changed man.

His hair had grown out some, hidden beneath his knit cap. Facial hair had sprouted along his jaw and over his lip. What few pounds he'd put on while living with John were nowhere to be seen, and had in fact taken several more with them; he was practically skeletal. His bright, pale eyes were sharp, ever-aware as always, and glimmered with something that suggested paranoia. The bags beneath his eyes were deep, making him look bruised.

He was exhausted. So, so very exhausted.

Hugging the gun to his chest he spared himself a moment to close his eyes.

"_You look like shit." John told him as soon as he slipped into his Mind Palace. Sherlock smiled wryly in answer. _

"_Lovely to see you too, my friend."_

_John laughed. "Really, you do. Not doing such a great job taking care of yourself, I see. You're a mess without me to look after you."_

_"You always knew I would be, didn't you?" Sherlock sighed. He loved and hated this. Seeing John was pain and relief. This John was not real. Not _his _John. But, he couldn't do without this John._

_"You managed without me before." This John that reclined on the windowseat was no less real to Sherlock than his own breath. His words were so true to form that Sherlock could forget that he was a figment._

_"Managed and thrived are two very different things, my dear John." _

_It was uncomfortable to admit such a thing, in a way. He needed John so much more than John needed him. In fact, he needed John so much that he had created a fictitious version of his friend while John was home safe in London. The knowledge was bittersweet. _

_"Don't get all mopey on me now, Sherlock. You promised me you would take care of yourself. I can't look after you all the time now. Only when you're here." John stood, seeming to fill the spacious bedroom. "You damn well better step up and do my half of the job when I can't be there to do it myself."_

_Sherlock sighed. "I'm trying, John."_

_"I know, Sherlock. I need you to try harder." _

_"I will." Sherlock took a step toward John, as if proximity to the memory of his friend would give him strength._

The train shook, jolting him back to awareness with the feeling of falling. He gasped, nearly dropping the gun. His body was cramped, and his chest felt hollow in a way that left him almost struggling for air. Being ripped from his Mind Palace, from John, was a terrible thing. He took a few slow deep breaths, straightening his back and stretching out. No one had come into the baggage cart for hours, he was probably safe to lie down for a bit. His body needed it so badly.

He wedged himself between the wall and a rather large trunk, using his backpack as a pillow and he laid down on his side. The gun stayed in his hand, tucked against his chest. He closed his eyes, sinking into unconsciousness for the first time in too long.

Taranto was filthy. Literally.

Sherlock couldn't have possibly imagined a dirtier city. One couldn't have possibly existed. Taranto was on the books as being the most polluted. Now that he was there, he wasn't surprised at all. It seemed like the perfect place for a scum of a man to hide.

He was there hunting the second gunman; the one assigned to target Mrs. Hudson. John Clay. The name enough gave him pause, wrenching hard at that curiously empty space in his chest and leaving him reeling. To gather his wits again he mentally catalogued himself; _gun, waistband, ammunition, left pocket, Clay's address, back pocket, evidence, backpack._ The things he would need to complete his mission reminded him of his purpose, pulled him back to himself. He hiked the backpack up on his shoulder and started through the streets.

The air felt coarse in his lungs, exhaustion pulled at his weary bones, his dirt-streaked skin itched desperately. He wanted to find somewhere that he could curl up and sleep for a week.

No, no he didn't.

He didn't want to waste a second of time. He wanted to find Clay and remove him from the threat list, by any means necessary. Pulling the address from his back pocket he looked it over again, before pulling aside a stranger on the street to ask for directions.

It was not the first time Sherlock was glad he had a mastery of several languages.

He stood outside the Cattedrale di San Cataldo di Taranto. It was a beautiful building, historic; cherished. A place no one would think would house a criminal; a murderer. It was perfect really, a sinful man hiding in a holy house; fateful almost, if one believed in such things.

His contact told him this was where Clay was hiding, posing as a holy man; a man on a pilgrimage. He was there, alone, between masses, left to his quiet prayers in the sanctity of the church. Despite not being remotely religious, Sherlock found himself disgusted with the deceit. It wouldn't last much longer, however, if he had anything to do with it.

He walked into the church, stashing his backpack behind a sculpture in the entrance. He didn't want to risk getting it damaged or losing the contents. He could see a man, presumably Clay, kneeling at the altar at the other end of the room. It was almost surprising to see him actually praying, but it was all part of the act. If someone had walked in, as Sherlock had, they would have seen him.

Sherlock walked forward quietly, trying to get closer, looking for proof. He could easily have shot the man from where he stood, but he had no way of being sure it was Clay. There would be enough blood on his hands, without adding that of an innocent man.

The kneeling man stood at the sound of Sherlock's footsteps, pausing only to cross himself before turning to face him, a welcoming smile on his face. Sherlock wasn't fooled.

_Scar beneath left eye; knife wound from combat. Muscular form, militant stance, close cropped hair. Soldier. Calloused hands. Concealed weapons. John Clay._

He had his proof, but still he made no move. Of all the things he expected, he hadn't anticipated Clay reminding him _so much_ of John. The way he held himself, the set of his frame, the color of his hair. He knew better, but part of him was reeling.

Clay's eyes narrowed in suspicion. His hands drifted to the folds of his robe.

_Move._ Sherlock heard John's voice in his head and it spurred him on.

He strode forward, punching Clay square in the face before he had a chance to get a grasp on his weapon. Clay stumbled back a step, then barrelled forward, driving his shoulder into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock fell, just managing to catch himself on his hands and knees as he was knocked over, but the stability was short lived when Clay slammed an elbow down over his back. He sprawled on the ground, his cheek pressed against the cold marble floor. Clay stepped on his hand.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Clay growled.

Sherlock twisted to look up at him.

They stared at each other for a long moment before Clay's lips peeled back in a grin that was anything but friendly.

"Mr. Holmes. A pleasure. I was so disappointed when I thought I wasn't going to meet you." He ground his heel down into the bones of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock grimaced and choked back a cry of pain. "I could kill you now, you know, Mr. Holmes. I _like_ to kill people. But that wouldn't be fun. I much prefer a bit of struggle."

He stepped off, reaching down to haul Sherlock to his feet. "So, Mr. Holmes, we're going to have a bit of fun before I kill you."

Sherlock met his eyes. "That's terribly ambitious of you," he said, then slammed his frontal bone into Clay's nose.

The fight quickly turned into bedlam; a maelstrom of blow after blow, dodging, blocking, hitting and being hit. Sherlock was hardly in any condition to be fighting with such vigor, but there was really no choice in his mind. He landed a blow to Clay's abdomen, causing him to double over briefly and allowing Sherlock a breath. He was bleeding from his cheek and a split lip, one eye was swelling, he was bruised all over. Clay was laughing.

He leapt at Sherlock, brandishing a knife that he had been concealing in his robes. The blade split his clothing and flesh as easily as tearing a sheet of paper, leaving a gaping, gruesome maw of a wound across his chest.

Clay struck again, but this time Sherlock dodged; using Clay's momentum against him.

_Run. Get some distance._

He backed away a few steps and bolted from the room, running aimlessly through the length of the church. He needed to find somewhere secluded, a place to regroup.

He found himself in the belltower.

Up and up he ran, spiraling round the staircase, Clay thundering behind him; recovered. He reached the top, a landing around the bell, nowhere to go. Clay would be there in mere seconds..

_You bloody fucking idiot._

A knife flew by him before he had the chance to free his gun from his waistband. He whirled to see Clay come to the top of the stairs, an array of knives now clutched in his fist. They stood facing each other, regarding the situation.

"I could shoot you," Sherlock said calmly, looking Clay dead in the eyes. The other man grinned. He would put a knife in Sherlock before he'd even drawn the gun; they both knew it.

"And I could put a knife in your heart from here. But that's not a challenge. I'd like to have a little more fun than that if one of us is going to die."

He was insane. No wonder Moriarty had chosen him. To him death was no more than a game; someone wins and someone loses.

Sherlock was determined to win.

Clay handed him a knife slowly, keeping one for himself and tossing the rest to the floor with a clatter. The fight started quickly, an exchange of blows and slashes. A trading of wounds. Clay sliced him across the shoulder. Sherlock returned the favor by gouging a line into his arm. Clay answered by punching him in the face, knocking him backwards. Clay slammed into him again, pushing, twisting, flipping.

He found himself hanging on by his fingertips, suddenly draped against the side of the bell tower and clinging to the windowsill.

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes. Here we are. I could pull you in, or I could crush your hands and watch you fall. This could be quick, or I could draw it out. Do I want to kill you myself or let nature take it's course?"

Sherlock was thinking. _0% survival rate in this position. 0% survival rate if pulled into the tower. 10% survival rate with risky maneuver._ He was so close. He'd gone so far, and he was going to die.

_Let go._ John's voice in his ear. _Now._

He did.

He caught the next ledge down, just barely, wrenching his shoulders painfully. It took effort but he managed to haul himself inside, falling to the floor in a heap. Clay swore above him, and he heard the hammer of feet as his killer came for him.

Sherlock reached behind him, palming his stolen gun.

Levelling it at the stairs he counted steps, hearing Clay bang closer, closer, closer still. Finally, he was in view. Sherlock pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced him sidelong through the chest. Clay never saw it coming. The body ragdolled down the rest of the stairs to the landing. Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief.

_Two out of three._

He cleaned his wounds at the hostel, waving off the concern of those around him that he should see a doctor. He couldn't afford a doctor. He was proficient enough at stitching his own injuries by now, regardless. They were ugly stitches; the wounds would certainly scar, but they were closed. Anywhere he couldn't reach he bandaged closed and hoped for the best.

The next location was France. He'd been given use of a small empty house owned by one of his contacts. It was strange to have the space to himself; to not be crammed into a corner by people or things. He could breathe. It hurt his chest.

He lay on his back on the small bed provided to him, sweating with mild fever. The gash in his shoulder hadn't taken well; he must have missed something when cleaning it. It wasn't enough to kill him, no, he made sure of that, but it was certainly an inconvenience.

He sighed, drifting, sinking into himself.

_John sat at the foot of the enormous bed, barefoot with his legs folded in on themselves. He toyed with something in his hands; a knife. "That was really dangerous, you know." There was sadness to his voice._

"_I know," Sherlock answered._

"_You could have died," John said._

_Sherlock stepped forward. "You helped me."_

_John smiled slightly. "I did. I'm trying to keep you alive, you idiot. You're making it hard."_

_John leaned over, stashing the knife in the bedside table drawer. A memory; stored. That close encounter would stay fresh in his mind for a long time. "Two out of three, Sherlock," John acknowledged. "You're doing really well, keep it up."_

_Sherlock didn't know what he was doing, but suddenly he was holding onto John's arm. "I want to come home," he whispered, feeling for all the world like a child._

_John laid his hand over Sherlock's. "I know you do. And you better."_

When Sherlock opened his eyes he was alone.

Moriarty had a small vein in Ireland. That was where Sherlock went next.

He'd hardly even settled himself into the motel room he'd managed to bargain for when the phone rang. He stared at it as it trilled on, begging to be stopped. He'd said no phone calls. No one should have known he was here.

He grabbed the receiver and didn't say a word.

"That was a terrible thing to do, brother, making us all believe you're dead."

Sherlock's heart stopped.

"Mycroft. I'm impressed it took you this long." His words had no bite to them.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Two high priority assassins in Moriarty's employ suddenly turn up dead, and it wasn't my men doing it. It raises questions, and you have to know the right people to ask." He paused, clearing his throat. "You're a hard man to find."

"Good." Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say more.

Mycroft sighed. "I could-"

"No. I have to finish this," he cut his brother off. "One more. One more and then I'll come home."

There was a long moment of silence. "Alright. Alright. Just call if you need anything."

A beat. "I have to go," Sherlock said tersely.

Another sigh. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're not dead."

"For now, as far as you're concerned, I am." He hung up the phone.

One hundred and seventy three days. Five months and twenty days. He'd been gone nearly half a year. There was still one more gunman to find.

Sebastian Moran.

While he hunted after Moran, Sherlock went about tearing down more of Moriarty's cursed web. With a web of his own and hundreds of eyes everywhere he exposed a counterfeiter, a smuggling agency, a bomb maker and countless other contacts of the consulting criminal.

Whole corporations fell from the inside out, crumbling from their corruption. It didn't take much. Some of them had been under the eyes of various criminal investigators for years; they just needed the right information, and Sherlock was there to give it. A slip of paper here, a photograph there; the contents of his backpack lead to the downfall of many.

Tearing down the little threads gave him no satisfaction; it was simply keeping his hands busy while he searched, while he waited. The days ticked by like weeks on their own.

The note was passed to him on the street, slipped into his palm unseen.

_Tianjin, China_

Moran was found.

He stashed himself away on a cargo plane, the pilot an old contact he had once done a favour for. She didn't question why his calling in of the favour was to hitch a ride on her transport, simply showed him where he could best wedge himself for a relatively comfortable ride. He ended up between two crates in a corner, shielding himself in a little hovel. His long legs were folded up against him and he leaned back against the wall of the plane, letting the loud drone of the engines drown out the worst of his thoughts.

This was the last step. This, and he could go home. One last man. One last kill.

The thought was dizzying, though he had a hard time distinguishing whether it was from fear or thrill. If he survived this, it would be all over. He could turn the rest over to Mycroft; leave the rest of the organization to his brother. He would be done. He would wash his hands clean of Moriarty's men and return home, return to Baker Street. To John, if John would have him home.

_Watch your back. Stay alive. Come home._

_Don't be dead._

The plane landed in at the designated warehouse, and Sherlock slipped away unnoticed. He was not in Tianjin, he still had some way to go, but he was in China. He was closer to Moran than he'd been in months; closer to the man who'd held a gun to John's head, who threatened to scatter bits of it all over the streets outside of Bart's.

Sherlock planned to return the courtesy.

Determination settled inside him with a deadly stillness.

He began the first steps toward the end of his journey.

His chinese was terrible; rusty and stilted from years of not using it. He'd never mastered reading it, too many symbols cluttering up his mind, but what he did grasp of spoken was little help to him. It took him days to find someone travelling to Tianjin, and who would take him along with them, but he got there all the same.

Finding Moran within the city would be another challenge altogether. It was huge; an industrial center. Sherlock could not fathom why this was where he chose to hide himself, but there they both were.

He begged a room at a local inn, doling out what little money he had left, and settled for one last night.

The room was small and poorly lit; conditions Sherlock was no longer unaccustomed to. He collapsed on the bed in his dirty clothes, using his backpack as a pillow and quickly willed himself to his only true remaining sanctuary.

_John was reclining on his bed now, legs stretched out and arms folded over his stomach. He was the picture of ease and Sherlock envied him that. John would have been so calm right before the proverbial storm. He was used to this; to danger, to putting his life on the line time after time._

"_Not something you really get used to," John countered his train of thought. _

_Sherlock half-smiled. "I will find him tomorrow. Could be dangerous."_

"_Isn't it always?"_

_It was, where they were concerned. Always dangerous. "How very true, my dear John."_

_John flexed his feet and threaded his fingers together. "He was going to kill me," he said simply. If only Real-John understood so well. _

"_He was. I'm going to kill him."_

"_You will. Do you feel guilty?"_

_Sherlock shook his head, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to John. "Not at all." He would have killed a hundred men to keep them safe._

"_Good. Guilt will get you killed."_

_He stilled. "John. I'm frightened." Here he could admit it; to himself, to this construct of John. He'd nearly died several times, but this was the end-all and he, Sherlock Holmes, was terrified._

"_Good," John said flatly in answer. "A little fear will keep you alive."_

Three days it took him to narrow down Moran's location. Three days of asking, of bribing, of trial and error. Three days, and he had him.

He was working in an auto battery factory, and rumour had it he had found a way to sleep there at nights, in the underbelly of the building. Sherlock was going to find out. At nightfall he was going to make his way down and see for himself the sniper who had threatened his best friend.

It was dark; dangerously so. He crept carefully through the building, gun in hand. It wasn't as comfortable in his palm as John's had been, but it served him well. It had killed two assassins, perhaps it would kill a third as well.

He descended into the underground of the factory; a network of tunnels and storage rooms. It would be the perfect place to hide if one knew how to play their cards; Moran certainly did. The halls down there were impossibly darker, leaving Sherlock to rely almost entirely on his sense of touch. He walked along the right wall, skimming by, his ears sharp for sounds of movement. He could smell traces of petrol burning; a heater being used to keep warm.

He literally just had to follow his nose to find his last target.

Moran was in the center of a large, but predominantly empty storage room; the door to which was wide open. He obviously wasn't much concerned with security finding him. They probably didn't even care.

Sherlock ducked into a shadowy corner and took a moment to assess his chances.

_55% probability of survival; close quarter combat, hand to hand, with the addition of surprise lent the advantage in his favour. _The room was boiling; the heaters must have been running at maximum for hours. Moran was a man used to heat, Sherlock was not. _Recalculate probability of survival: 50%, ability to cope with temperatures in fight lends advantage to Moran._

The air smelled like stagnant water and a little like rusted metal; _hazardous conditions, unknown terrain. Recalculate to 47%._

His odds were slowly dwindling, but he refused to back down. He was not going to turn away from this. He was going to kill Moran, and he _would_ survive, because he had to; for John, he had to.

_For you, my friend, I'll come back from the dead._ Sherlock had promised him; he had sworn it on his own grave.

He carefully crept out of his hiding spot, keeping close to the wall and an eye out for cover spots. Moran was a trained gunman, specializing in sniping, and Sherlock had no idea what weapons he had at his disposal.

_Possession of a gun affects odds of survival; recalculate to 5%. No gun, odds remain stable._

Moran was leaning over something, unaware of his presence. The distraction was a benefit, allowing Sherlock to creep up behind him, footsteps disguised under the clatter as Moran dug around through his things.

Sherlock pressed the gun to the back of Moran's head. "On your knees," he ordered lowly, his voice a growl.

Moran froze, hands coming up.

_Shoot him. Now._

Sherlock waited a second too long. Moran spun, grabbing Sherlock's gun hand and twisting it. His elbow connected with Sherlock's side and he wrenched the weapon away, tossing it so that he could put his free hand around Sherlock's throat. His crushing grip lessened when surprise took him, recognition crossing his face.

"Ah, our little jumper. I thought you were dead...how'd you manage that? I watched you fall." Curiosity got the better of him.

Sherlock coughed when he managed to swallow down a gulp of air. "I shook hands with the Devil," he spat.

Moran clucked his tongue. "You'll have disappointed Jim. He would have been so thrilled to see you survived, though. He'd want to know how." He let go of Sherlock's throat completely, stepping back with a smug smile on his face. "Granted, as soon as he figured it out he would have killed you himself. No second chances, you know. Might have even let me have the honour."

Sherlock gasped, drawing in great gulps of air. "What did you do with him? My sources told me the body was gone from the roof shortly after my suicide. All cleaned up, no scene left. I assume it was you. The others weren't that loyal."

Moran was beaming proudly. "Clever, clever, detective. Yea, I stashed the boss in a freezer. It was all part of the plan, you see, if it came to that. They couldn't find him, or it would've ruined everything. You killed him."

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. He swallowed a bullet to make me kill myself."

"And yet you're still walking. I knew I should've pulled the trigger on the doctor, anyway. Would have made things so much cleaner."

Sherlock's blood hit flash point, igniting in his veins. Moran's smile spread wider. Sherlock promptly elbowed him straight in the mouth and was gratified with the sight of blood.

Moran laughed through the red in his mouth. "Struck a nerve there, did I?" He kicked Sherlock in the chest.

"Don't want me to talk about your little Johnny boy?" A fist met his cheek. Sherlock countered with an uppercut, snapping Moran's head back.

"Ooh, feisty," he bared his teeth, backing up slowly. "Come on, detective. Only one of us is leaving here alive, and I'm betting on me. Wanna play one last game for ol' Jim?" He still served a dead master. "I'll give you a chance to live Holmes. Catch me if you can." He took off running into the dark. Sherlock followed, abandoning his gun in preference of taking Moran's life with his bare hands.

He tore after the assassin in the dark, pushing off walls and following the pound of footsteps.

_Left. Left. Right. Left. Stairs._

He barrelled up the stairs only to get a boot to the face and be kicked right back down them. He rolled to a stop on the landing, groaning in the near pitch black. He should have kept silent, but he couldn't help the sound escaping. His entire body suddenly felt like one large bruise.

"Tsk, tsk. Did you fall down, Holmes?" Moran taunted him, but Sherlock kept still, hearing the slide of metal on leather as Moran unsheathed a knife. Well, that was unfair.

"Here, let me help you up." Sherlock moved just in time to avoid the blade as it sought to sheathe itself in his body.

Moran let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, quick little fucker, aren't you." He struck again, aiming low. The knife sank deep into the meat of Sherlock's thigh and he howled in pain. "Strike one!"

Sherlock gripped his wound, trying to staunch the flow. It made it difficult to move, let alone walk. He was little more than a sitting duck like this. It didn't stop him from trying to limp out of the way, though.

"You should've just stayed dead, Holmes. It would have been so much faster. A fall is a much more pleasant way to go than what you just brought on yourself." Sherlock slumped against the wall, only just able to make out Moran's shadowy form as it moved steadily closer to him. The assassin struck again and Sherlock dropped, just barely slipping away from the deadly weapon.

"Quick, and crafty too! No wonder Jim was so amused by you."

The fourth blow Sherlock didn't see coming, but he certainly felt it. Hot pain flared in his side and he grunted, too stunned to shout. Moran had just stabbed him in the ribs. He grabbed at the wound, feeling the torn skin and his already limited vision narrowed to pinpoints. Moran had essentially killed him.

_Don't. Be. Dead!_

No. John.

He had promised John-

Sherlock pushed himself up along the wall, using it for support. If he was going to die he was bloody well going to take Moran with him.

The knife came again, slashing at his head. He ducked painfully, barely avoiding losing his face. The blade skittered across the wall, and Sherlock drove his shoulder into Moran's chest. When the knife arm swung around again, he was ready.

He grabbed Moran's wrist, twisting it until he dropped the knife. The metal clattered on the floor. Before Sherlock could gather his next plan hands closed around his throat again. Moran knocked him down, pinning him to the floor as he choked him.

"I knew I should've just done it. I should've shot him. Cracked his head open with a bullet."

Sherlock struggled to breathe. To break away. The shadows were creeping in closer.

"I should've painted the streets with bits of John Watson. Leaving him alive was_ boring_."

Sherlock reached out, desperately looking for something to help him. Anything.

"Perhaps I will after I'm done with you." Moran gave him a shake and slammed his head into the floor. "Holmes and Watson, dead together. I'll take him out right in your shitty little flat. Put a bullet through his broken heart."

His hand closed over the hilt of the knife, just enough grip to pull it to him.

"Say goodbye, Holmes."

Sherlock smiled through white hot rage. "Goodbye," he choked out between gritted teeth, then drove the blade into Moran's throat. Blood dripped on his face and he pulled the knife free before shoving it in again.

He stabbed Moran over and over until the grip around his neck was gone, until Moran collapsed unmoving, until Sherlock's fury was spent. He stabbed him thirty seven times.

Moran was dead; unrecognizable.

Sherlock was dying.

John Watson would live.

He couldn't believe he was still alive.

The blade amazingly hadn't pierced his lung. When he realized he wasn't coughing up blood he inspected the injury, finding a gouge through his bone instead of the puncture he expected.

Never before had Sherlock believed in luck.

It wasn't one of his best ideas to treat his own wounds.

The infection that took to his leg was absolute agony. He was sweating and shaking. The skin around the puncture was bright red and inflamed. It hurt to touch. He couldn't even clean it.

Suddenly, he was certain he was actually going to die. This killer came silently.

"_Come on, Sherlock," John said, "Pull it together. You promised me." His dark blue-green eyes were worried, reflecting Sherlock's fear._

Sherlock gave in and went to a local hospital; there was no one left he cared to hide from anymore. There was no risk of exposure, of discovery. Milverton was dead. Clay was dead. Moran was dead. Three out of three gunmen, assassinated. Countless accomplices arrested. His deed was done; his work complete.

The doctors tried their best but the infection was deep, wreaking havoc on his entire body. Antibiotics hardly helped. Herbal remedies did little. He couldn't move. He could barely stay conscious. He was in agony. He began to fear he would lose his leg completely.

He only hoped Mycroft would prove himself useful for once, and find him before that happened.

He loved being right.

He was medevaced to the Heraklion hospital in Greece; a top ranked hospital where he was given a private room under a false name and treated by specialists flown in specifically for his treatment. His brother's reach never failed to impress. The first two days were spent in surgeries for his injuries, cleaning his wounds, treating his infections, doing a number of blood tests, and so on. He was poked, prodded, swabbed, pricked and scrubbed. It was an exhausting process. These past eight months had been exhausting.

He was skeletal thin and haggard. He really just wanted a shower and a shave, but he didn't trust his body to support him long enough.

He wanted to sleep.

When he opened his eyes Mummy was sitting next to his bed. He was too worn to be shocked, or to ask questions. He simply looked at her and waited. She reached out and laid a cool hand on his cheek.

"You're not dead." It was not a question. It was not a statement filled with awe. It was simply a fact.

"No, Mummy," he agreed, surprised at the comfort he took from her hand. It had been so long since he'd felt the simplest affection. From her. From anyone.

Her eyes searched his face. "I suppose you'll not explain to me what you've been doing all this time you've been supposedly deceased?"

"I very much doubt you would want to know," he answered honestly. How many mothers would want to know their son, who was supposed to be dead, had killed three people instead? She pursed her lips in answer, gathering all she needed from his face alone. She would observe, she would see; he could hardly hide it from her, but he would never speak the words. She would never hear it from his own lips.

"Will you tell me how you survived?"

He gave her a weary smile. "A magic trick and a bit of luck."

She shook her head, frowning. He could see the wear on her. She had lived eight months believing her youngest son buried in the ground. He lifted his hand, careful of the IV, and placed it on hers. "I almost didn't," he murmured softly.

"I know," she said, her words almost inaudible, "I'm glad you did."

They sat in silence for a long time.

With the infection gone he was left to physical therapy; a grueling experience. He refused to return to his life in London the battered man he was, bearing the reminder of the dark days he'd just passed. He refused to walk with this last hand of Moriarty showing itself, to let him win that proverbial battle. They trained his leg endlessly, working the ruined tissue back to usability. He didn't care about the weight he had lost, or the weakness in his bones, or the scars across his body, or the weakness in his leg.

His only lasting goal was just to be able to walk on his own two feet when he went home. When he returned to Baker Street. To John.

Mycroft worked tirelessly to pave the way for his return. When Sherlock was finally discharged from the hospital, he essentially had his whole life back in his hands. His death certificate had been pulled, his autopsy reports mysteriously disappeared, everything officially declaring him a dead man; vanished.

He was Sherlock Holmes once more.

He set foot in London and all but collapsed for the relief of familiar ground beneath his feet.

He stood, staring at the door to two-two-one-B. It was unchanged. So much was unchanged.

_Two hundred and forty three days._

In his hands he held a key and a simple bouquet of white carnations and tulips. It was Valentine's day, he was told. Tradition said you brought flowers to loved ones.

Sherlock slid the key into the lock and opened the door.


	3. Chapter One

Fractured

Chapter 1:

I looked around the bar at the patrons, smiling to myself. Sub-humans, the lot of them. They come here to eat and drink, to stuff themselves, fill their gluttonous mouths. They spill their secrets to me, tell me things they would tell no one else. They think I can help them, put their pathetic little lives in perspective, give them advice that the people they trust cannot. How much faith they have in me, _a stranger_, is positively laugh-worthy.

They bore me to the bone.

I always ID them when they sit down at the bar. Have to make sure they're legal.

Tedious procedure.

Useful to me.

_Amelia Whitaker_

_Age: 34_

_Address: 82 Church Road, Barnes, London, SW13 0DQ_

_Organ Donor_

Photographic memory is a wonderful thing.

I hand the ID back with a smile and ask her what she wants. She asks for a martini. She tells me about her cheating boyfriend. I pour her a drink called Hell on Earth and hand it to her. This is not what she asked for, but this is what she needs. She doesn't know it; I do. She also doesn't know how perfect it is. _Hell on Earth. How true that will be._

She is an accountant for a big firm. Her job is important, but not as important as she thinks it is, or she wants it to be. Her story is boring me. She is abrasive and stupid; I want to shut her up. _No wonder her boyfriend cheated on her_. She is so painfully dull; it hurts to listen to her. I smile. She won't be so lackluster later...or maybe she will, I haven't decided yet.

Perhaps she'll be lucky. Perhaps I'll find someone better to entertain me. There is always someone just begging for it.

Her nails are short, well kept, but the polish is chipped. She bites at the skin around her nails, not the nails themselves. Her hands could use a bit of lotion. Her straight brown hair could use a brush. I wonder whether her disheveled appearance is a result of her boyfriend cheating, _boring,_or if her disheveled appearance is why the boyfriend cheated, _much funnier._

I don't tell her this. Instead I lie. I assure her he's scum, and she's beautiful, and she's better off without him from the sounds of it. She smiles and drinks more. Compliments my drink, my choice. I always make wonderful choices. I always know better. I feign flattery, brush if off to years of experience.

_I know them better than they know themselves._

More patrons, more cards, more receipts. So many choices. So many options. So many ways to kill the boredom for a short while.

It's addictive. I could stop if I wanted. I don't want to. It's far too much fun. The first time had been a test. It was so fulfilling.

_The thrill of the hunt._

_The pleasure of the kill._

_The risk of being caught._

_The pride in getting away__ clean__._

I laugh over them. All of them are my prey. No one is safe. I don't care about age, or race, or gender. I don't care if they like me or hate me. I don't care what they do for a living or if they're just a bum on the street.

If they pique my interest, they're mine for the taking. They're the only ones who can cure the boredom.

I lift a receipt from the drawer at the end of the night and look over the name printed at the bottom. Their card information flashes behind my eyes. White letters floating on black, their face right next to it. I remember each detail perfectly.

The receipt goes back in the drawer. I take to the door.

_The decision has been made._

_Watch your back._


	4. Chapter Two

Chapter 2:

It had been a little over a month since Sherlock returned home. In the beginning it was particularly rough, and that was putting it delicately, but things were beginning to normalize again. John had the hardest time of it, obviously. Sherlock had known John wasn't dead in those eight months; he knew John was home, safe. Thankfully, Mycroft had kept the knowledge of Sherlock's survival to himself once he figured it out, maintaining the safety of John's ignorance Sherlock had intended. Sherlock thought everyone was better off with him gone. He was right on one count; it was _safer_ that they didn't know he was alive. He was quite wrong when he thought it was better they thought him dead.

Every now and then he could still feel the ghost pain in his jaw from where John punched him when he first crossed the threshold into his old flat. He'd entered the flat with flowers and Mrs. Hudson had screamed upon seeing him. John came running downstairs, ready to fight. Sherlock got a fist to the face; John hit him so hard he'd actually been knocked out. He didn't know what he expected of their reunion, but that hadn't been it.

Sherlock had fulfilled John's graveside request. _Don't be dead._ He wasn't dead, and here he was.

Sherlock absently rubbed his still-aching jaw while lying on the couch. A month and a half. Now and then John still seemed surprised to walk into the living room and find him there in his chair or on the couch. It was as if John would forget that Sherlock was there, that he was alive, that Sherlock was finally back home, but it was getting better. Mrs. Hudson no longer cried every time she saw him. She wasn't even all that teary-eyed these last few days, and they were having conversations that didn't end in her sobbing.

With John it had been a journey of its own. The first few days of Sherlock's return, John hadn't even been there. After he'd knocked Sherlock out and screamed to his heart's content, he left and hadn't returned for two days. When he returned John had all but ignored Sherlock unless Sherlock tried to talk, then John would just punch him again and leave for a walk. Eventually, John started to make tea again, though he would leave a second cup ready, but unprepared, in the kitchen for Sherlock. A few days after that, he simply left the mug of tea steeping in the kitchen. "Tea's in the kitchen," he would say, tersely delivered and almost always not requiring Sherlock's answer. Then John would sit in his chair and refuse to look at him. It was better than silence.

In time, John started bringing Sherlock tea like he used to, but any conversations that did not end in Sherlock getting hit were always awkward and treading too lightly around the central issue. True to form, John entered the room, setting a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table by Sherlock's elbow. He had kept Sherlock's favorite cup, even after eight months of supposed death. In fact, he had kept nearly all of Sherlock's things. Many of them had been organized and tucked away, but they were still there, like they had been waiting for him to come home, just as John had.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled, twitching an absent smile in John's direction. John gave a stiff nod before settling himself into his chair, still ever mindful of his psychosomatically dodgy leg. His walking stick leaned against the arm of the chair, ready to be used at any moment. The limp still lingered, coming and going. John's leg still pained him. Sherlock hated that bloody stick. It was a sign of defeat. He wanted to be rid of it.

"Case?" John asked shortly, raising an eyebrow at him as he picked up a newspaper and sipped at his tea.

Sherlock shook his head, roused from his thoughts. "No. The Yard still has me on probation. Simply thinking."

John scoffed. "Well, that's always dangerous. Don't get lost in there, alright?"

Sherlock smiled slightly to himself.

"No promises. It's been quite some time since I've cleared out the dust in my mind palace," Sherlock informed John with a laugh, and John gave a clipped chuckle, shaking his head. Sherlock knew John thought it was a ridiculous concept; it was why he said it. He liked making John laugh. One might say he was a bit fixated on it, given the knowledge of how much pain he had caused his closest friend in the world.

Sherlock swept up from the couch, unfolding his body with a boneless grace unnatural in a man with such long limbs. He grabbed his cup of tea and sauntered over to the window, blowing gently on the steaming liquid. "Anything interesting in the papers?"

"You mean any nice deaths for you to dissect? Nothing too special, social worker stabbed to death." Sherlock heard the paper ruffle and could feel John's eyes on his back. This was the only way he'd been able to stand being case-less lately. He exercised his mind via newspapers; hardly satisfying.

"Probably an angry parent who wanted their child back," he murmured, dismissing the suspicion as he sipped his tea and pulled aside the curtain to look down at the street. John read him the obituaries, but the social worker was the only one he could classify as murder. A few accidents, a suicide, some disease or age related. His brain was going to rot at this pace, but he wasn't going to complain. He had made that mistake once and only once, and learned quickly not to do it again. If he complained about being bored John got this strained look in his eye; a look that asked 'isn't it good enough that you're here alive' and wrenched at his innards.

Sherlock hated that look. He wanted to avoid it at all costs. It was good to be alive, _so very good, _he thought with a shudder. It was better to make John happy.

John returned to his paper quietly, likely looking at the sport section or other such thing. Sherlock turned to regard him, studying him. His posture was seemingly casual but there was tension in his shoulders and back, like that of a man who expected things to suddenly take a horrible turn; a man who was, in fact, prepared for such a turn of events, because he was so used to it. It wasn't paranoia, it was a simple fact of his existence, and Sherlock found within himself a profoundly strong desire to relieve John of that sense.

"You birthday's in a few days," Sherlock stated bluntly, crossing to sit in his chair across from John's. John looked up, his surprise clear on his features as he folded his newspaper shut and leaned forward.

"Yeah, it is. I'm surprised you know that. I thought you didn't do birthdays?" John asked, that incredulous smirk twisting the left hand corner of his mouth.

"I don't 'do' _my _birthday John, that doesn't mean I don't pay attention to others. I merely don't see the point in my celebrating the day I was expelled from my mother's womb." Sherlock sipped his tea again, smiling to himself. "Besides, if there was any one birthday I ought to pay attention to, it would be yours." John let out a huff of disbelieving laughter and Sherlock chuckled into his tea, looking ceiling-ward.

"Don't tell Mycroft I said that, though, he'll have a fit because I never 'remember' his or Mummy's birthdays," he did his best impression of an innocent face, which was spoiled with a wry smile. "But that's not the matter at hand. We should do something for yours." John snorted in laughter now and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, confused as to how that was funny.

"Sherlock Holmes. You won't eat, you won't sleep, but you want to celebrate a birthday that isn't yours. I don't think I'll ever fully understand what goes on inside your head, you nutter." John smiled at him and Sherlock couldn't help but return the grin. He definitely liked John-happy. It was so much better than John-upset or John-stressed. John-happy made life feel normal again. John-happy kept Sherlock from feeling like a ghost in his own home.

"So what do you propose we do?" John continued, rubbing absent-mindedly at his aching leg, as if Sherlock were going to suggest some mad-dash across London. The idea was indeed a delightful one in Sherlock's mind, after having been cooped up for so long, but it was a thought best saved for another time.

"Lovely as Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson are, I think any more time spent holed up in here will drive us both mad. I think a day out would be good, and we can find plenty of things to do around London. I know of an excellent Thai restaurant not too far from here, and the owner owes me a favor." The two men grinned at each other. This was life as normal, or at least as close to truly normal as it had become after eight months of Sherlock being 'dead', and a month and a half of him suddenly being alive.

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," John remarked and leaned back, opening his newspaper once again.

Sherlock returned to his tea, turning his focus to the corner of the ceiling above the telly and returning to his thoughts. A month and a half back at Baker Street.

He had missed this.

Two days later, John came downstairs, bleary-eyed and worn. He limped into the living room and jumped as he saw Sherlock standing at the window. He knew it was stupid, but there were a lot of times that he didn't remember that Sherlock was alive, and home. However, John considered these mornings far better than the ones when he woke up, terrified that Sherlock was dead for good this time, or that him coming back was all a delusion. Those mornings, John usually ran down the stairs as fast as he could, only calming when he saw Sherlock.

John put the kettle on and rested his head against the cabinet for a moment. He glanced at his flatmate and then closed his eyes. John honestly hadn't known what he wanted when Sherlock came back-he had just been so angry. Of course, Sherlock had explained Moriarty's plan, and why he had to jump, and the generalities of what he had been doing for eight months; but it still pissed John off. John had lost seven months of his life after Sherlock jumped. He had very few memories until the end of January, when his family had forcibly pulled John, kicking and screaming, into the present. And to know now that it was all a lie, that all the effort and help had been for nothing, well. That still got John nice and pissed off if he thought about it too much.

He made them both tea and stuffed the newspaper under his arm. John passed Sherlock his cup and sat down in his chair with a groan, it seemed that both his shoulder and his leg were going to complain at him today. He tried very hard not to use his walking stick in the flat; it was mostly due to the way that Sherlock glared at the thing as if it was a personal affront. But John still needed it if he was going for a walk or out to Tesco's, and no matter how many poisonous looks Sherlock leveled at it, the cane was going to have to stay for now. "Morning," John said, unfolding the newspaper. "Still thinking?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. There just seems to be plenty to think about lately," Sherlock replied. John didn't have to see him to know that he was drinking some of his tea. John thought that Sherlock was still adjusting to life back to two-two-one-b sometimes. He could tell, when Sherlock would narrow his eyes at John or when Sherlock tilted his head back just a fraction, that the detective was surprised. It had taken him a while to settle back into a routine and stop looking as if someone was going to attack at any moment (though to be fair, that was John's fault just as much as it was Sherlock's). At the same time, Sherlock was almost tender around John, waiting for him before they left the flat and occasionally paying for cabs, as if he could make up for jumping. John couldn't, and didn't, want to explain it, because he knew deep down that Sherlock's absence had changed them both. They more or less had to relearn each other.

"Did you actually get any sleep last night?" John asked, skimming through the international reports. He frowned as he read about some car bombings in Afghanistan, but none of the casualties were people he knew by name.

"An hour or two, I think. Tried. Too many thoughts," Sherlock mumbled a bit into his teacup.

John looked up and offered Sherlock a small smile. "Doesn't that massive brain of yours ever shut up?" he joked, already knowing the answer.

"No, never. A curse sometimes, really. Anything interesting in the papers for me to feast my 'massive brain' on?"

John flipped to the back of the paper, humming as he skimmed. "Funeral for a teenager who was killed by a cab...old granny found dead in her bed..." John summarized as Sherlock scoffed at each one. "Professor at Anglia Ruskin University was found dead in his office."

Sherlock perked up a bit at that one. "Really? Shame. Which one? Do they say cause of death?"

"Hang on," John replied, reading the rest of the article. "Senior Lecturer David Hughes, and...no. They don't."

His flatmate's eyes lit up when John finished reading. He darted over behind John to read the article himself, leaning forward over John's shoulder. He shook his head. Sherlock was wearing the we-both-know-what's-going-on-here face, which always managed to make John angry and raise his blood pressure a few degrees.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Oh that's clever," Sherlock exclaimed, reaching over to grab the paper.

"What's so clever?" John asked, gritting his teeth.

"This! It's obviously murder. Mysterious undisclosed circumstances surrounding the death of a notable professor? Shame he had to die, really. I liked his work. I was looking forward to attending one of his lectures, but really, a professor murdered in his own office. Brilliant," Sherlock said.

John leaned his head on his hand as he watched his flatmate pace back and forth. "And how do you know all this?" Sherlock stopped, looking at John and not saying a word. John shook his head. "The face, Sherlock! The we-both-know-what's-going-on-here-face. You know how much I hate it and you've done it twice in the past minute."

Something passed over the taller man's face-embarrassment?-before smoothing out again. "Professor Hughes was a notable figure in the educational community," Sherlock started. John was glad that he was starting off from the beginning because he had never heard of this professor until today. "He travelled between universities to deliver lectures, he had made some incredible advancements in his field, and he's headlined local papers. Then the only notice they give his death is 'died in his office'? It screams that there is something they're not saying. He didn't die of natural causes, or they would have simply put that. Died in his sleep, passed away due to illness, standard every day deaths are nothing to hide, but murder...Murder is something worth shying from, especially a murder you don't understand," Sherlock finished in an admiring whisper.

John pursed his lips and sighed. "Has it occured to you-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, looking down at the paper again.

"You didn't know what I was going to say."

"You were going to suggest that I am simply inventing a crime where there isn't one, because it has been one and a half months since I had a case. That is technically false; I haven't really had a real case for nine and a half months." Sherlock paused, giving John a look out of the corner of his eye. They both knew exactly which case he meant. "But your sentiment is the same. I am not inventing a murder here, I am simply seeing what everyone else refuses to."

"Right," John mumbled, rubbing his face. He clenched his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. How could Sherlock get so thoroughly under John's skin? Honestly, the posh git thought he knew everything, which was obviously just untrue. "Right," John repeated, levering himself out of his chair. "I'm going upstairs," he said, walking over and pulling the paper out of Sherlock's hands. He took everything but the obituaries page, which he passed back to his flatmate. He shook his head slightly, then turned and walked away.

"John," Sherlock started.

"Don't bother," John cut him off, making the dismissal snap over his shoulder. He grabbed his tea and limped back upstairs, leaving Sherlock to his deductions.

He had already made a mess of things, Sherlock knew. He wasn't particularly sure _how_ he had upset John, but he knew he had, and that was all that mattered. Sherlock never had been good with people's emotions. Motives he could understand, but the complexity of others' feelings often eluded him after spending most of his time blocking out his own. He sighed, settling himself in his chair with the obituaries in his hand. He read the entry several times over, trying to deduce more information out of it than it could reasonably provide, merely so he felt justified in his actions, but it was useless. The only thing he knew for certain was that it was murder. A newspaper would tell him little else; he needed a crime scene, or at the very least a case file, neither of which he was likely to get anytime soon.

John hardly came down for the rest of the day.

The next morning, Sherlock's eyes snapped open to stare at his ceiling. The night of consideration hadn't done anything at all to clarify the mess he'd made, but that entire train of thought had come to a halt when the sun rose. It was John's birthday. Sherlock hadn't forgotten. Not even a delightfully suspicious murder would distract him from the fact.

This was far too important of an occasion, in light of recent events.

He rose, washed and dressed, quickly making his way out to the kitchen. John wouldn't be up yet, or at least he wouldn't have managed to pad down the stairs to start on breakfast yet. It was the perfect opportunity.

Turning on the kettle he pulled two clean mugs from the cabinet, dropped a tea bag in each and added one spoonful of sugar to John's cup, a spoonful and a splash of milk to his own. He rarely made tea, but of course the consulting detective knew exactly how his flatmate took his. Setting the mugs on the cleared kitchen table, Sherlock turned his attention to the fridge, attempting to find something he could scrounge together for breakfast. Another talent of his, cooking, but something he rarely bothered to do. He hardly ate often enough to warrant such a thing, and what he ate was hardly a concern so long as it kept him functional.

Pulling out eggs, butter, bread and sliced cheese, Sherlock placed a pan on the stove and set to raiding the spice cabinet when he heard John's bare feet on the stairs, moments before the still-half-asleep doctor made his way into the kitchen.

"Made tea," Sherlock informed John over his shoulder, the confusion palpable on the air. "And I'm making eggs in a basket. Any preference on how you want yours?"

"You made tea...and you're making breakfast?" John asked, disbelieving, sounding as if the sight before him was merely a manufactured result of his still-sleepy brain. "Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?"

Sherlock smirked over his shoulder. "John, don't be an idiot. Just because I _don't_ cook doesn't mean I can't. This is your day, it should be a good one." He nodded his head at the steaming cup on the table.

"Sit, drink, wake up," Sherlock teased with a smile, "Happy birthday, John."

"Thanks," John said, returning the smile and sitting at the table. He took a sip of his tea and hummed appreciatively. "Breakfast and tea made by Sherlock Holmes himself. That's better than my two previous birthdays combined already."

Sherlock cut a hole through the bread and buttered the pan. "I should hope so. Given the last two birthdays I was present for, breakfast courtesy of a Holmes is probably like ambrosia." The joke was slightly uncomfortable, bringing back memories he wasn't sure he wanted to visit then. He cracked an egg into the pan and turned to face John once more while it began to cook. "And this is only the beginning. My plan is to make this birthday all but erase the last two; you certainly deserve it."

"Well, if you want it to happen, no doubt it will," John responded lightly, letting silence fall for a few seconds before clearing his throat uncomfortably. Sherlock turned back to the stove to finish cooking, and he could feel John staring at him. He heard John open his mouth as if to say something else, but remained quiet, leaving his thoughts a mystery.

Sherlock laid a piece of cheese on top of the bread-and-egg to melt, sprinkling it over with a bit of salt, pepper and garlic. When the whole thing had suitably cooked together, Sherlock scooped it out with a spatula and set it on a plate which he then set in front of John.

"Here, give that a try, let me know what you think and I'll make more." He flashed a miniscule smile, turning back to the stove. There had been too many dark days between them, but this day would not be one of them. John Watson was going to have a good day, Sherlock was going to make sure of it.

"S'good," John informed him after taking a bite and Sherlock smiled, pleased.

"Glad you like it," he muttered, setting up to make another one. "How many do you want?"

"None, not until you have some, too," John insisted, cutting himself another bite. "It's my birthday, Sherlock, you have to listen to me."

Sherlock feigned a large sigh. "I should have expected that, Dr. Watson," he remarked, but consented, aiming to make the next one for himself. This time he tossed the egg back and forth between the shells until the whites separated and poured that into the hole in the toast. The rest of the process he repeated quickly; cook, flip, cheese, seasoning, serve.

Turning the heat off on the stove, he grabbed his plate and his cup of tea and sat himself on the other side of the kitchen table making a face at John that clearly asked if he was happy. The two men shared a laugh and Sherlock picked his up off the plate, taking a bite of the toast without thought of a fork or knife.

The two men ate their breakfast in pleasant silence, reveling in the rare Holmesian meal. When they were finished Sherlock stood, stacking their dishes. "You should go get dressed, I'll finish up here. We have a long day ahead of us." Sherlock flashed a devilish grin that could make any man but a certain army doctor cringe with concern and rushed John off. A good morning to a great day. His plan was already off on a good foot.

John quickly took a shower and shaved, then dressed in durable jeans and his favorite jumper, the one with navy blue and light blue stripes. He deliberated for a moment, but brought his walking stick downstairs with him. Sherlock was in his prayer pose on the couch, but the second John came back into the room, Sherlock was getting up and pulling on his coat.

John followed suit, grabbing his old green jacket. "So, where are we going?" John asked curiously.

"Right now? Wherever you wish," Sherlock answered, levelling a withering glance at the cane in John's hand before letting his face smoothe into indifference.

John broke into a smile. "Really?" he asked, which earned him the 'do-you-really-want-me-to-repeat-myself?' look from the taller man. "Would you mind the British Museum?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, examining John like he had suddenly been replaced by an android.

"I actually like history, contrary to whatever deductions you made," John said, leading the way out of the flat and towards the tube station. "Plus, I haven't seen the Rosetta Stone." John had expected Sherlock to protest the tube, but he had that look across his face, the one that said Sherlock was dealing with something he hadn't quite expected. John was sure the silence was a temporary thing, so he reveled in it.

They spent the rest of the morning getting lost in the British Museum. Sherlock stayed by John's side even though he sighed through some of the exhibits, obviously less than impressed by the exhibit on taboo from the Pacific Islands, but becoming incredibly excited by the exhibit on time and how various peoples have measured it. Sherlock disappeared while John was examining the Rosetta Stone and reappeared while John was looking at the Standard of Ur with tea for the pair of them. John enjoyed listening to Sherlock deduce the Lindow Man and sprout more facts and observations about Michelangelo's drawings than the tour guide nearby.

For lunch, Sherlock made good on his promise and took John to the Thai restaurant he had mentioned a few days before. John's _kai phat kraphao _was very good, just the right amount of spice; and Sherlock said his _khao khluk kapi_ was more than satisfactory. Just as they were leaving the restaurant, John's mobile rang.

"Hello?" he answered, starting to walk towards the library. A chorus of 'happy birthday' greeted him. He could pull out his mother's high soprano, his father's deep baritone, Emma's warm alto, Thomas's shaky tenor, and his nieces' tinny voices. John laughed when they finished, "Very good, thank you!"

"Dear!" his mother snatched the phone first. "How are you? How has your birthday been so far? I can't believe you're thirty one this year!" John answered all of his mother's questions, and talked to each of his family members in turn. He had just finished saying goodbye to his niece as the library came into view.

"I didn't know you had a niece," Sherlock remarked mildly as John slid his mobile back into his pocket.

"I've three, actually," John answered. It felt nice to correct Sherlock, even when he was being pleasant.

"Mother, father, older brother-Thomas?-who is married to Emma? So they have the three girls, then. After Thomas, then Harry, you, and a younger brother?" Sherlock deduced, allowing the inflection of questions to creep in for once.

"Spot on. Mike is my younger brother, by the way," John said, slipping into the library. "Allison, Leah, and Charlotte are my nieces."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You weren't this close with them before," he noted.

"Yeah, I wasn't," John responded. Sherlock stopped for a moment before following. John knew he was opening his mouth to ask, but John cut him off. "Just don't. Not today."

John's word was law today. Sherlock shut his mouth and merely hummed as John looked at the book selection. He took his time picking out a few books, picking out a biography of Churchill and a few different mystery books, which Sherlock scoffed at. When they left, Sherlock suggested they get some takeaway and rent a movie, since John was 'always complaining about how pop-culturally deficient' Sherlock was. John agreed, and sent Sherlock to get them takeaway as he picked out a film. He decided to go for _The Italian Job_, since he knew that Sherlock had never seen it. Halfway through checkout, John got a text:

_Just dropped off what you wanted, look in the fridge for an actual present from yours truly.-GL_

John smiled and texted back his thanks. He was unsurprised when Sherlock was waiting for him outside the shop; they walked home together in an easy silence. Sherlock paused when they got to their flat, frowning. John smiled a little to himself as he lead the way up to their room, noting the four stacked cardboard boxes with approval. Sherlock swirled into the room soon after him, stopping and looking at the boxes with confusion.

"My birthday present from Greg," John explained, hanging up his coat. "Cold cases for you."

"Cold cases for me? How on earth is that a present for you? That's like Christmas for me, Lestrade must be confused. Are you sure he knows it's your birthday?"

John smiled at his flatmate. "It's a present because you getting distracted usually means peace and quiet for me. So that's Greg's real gift," John responded, walking over to the fridge. He opened it up and found Greg's other present: a six pack of lager. He nabbed one and popped off the cap, only to find Sherlock looking at the boxes with something akin to amusement.

"After Professor Hughes, I'm surprised you want me to have cases," Sherlock commented.

John shrugged as he set up the DVD. "Solving old cases I don't mind, you pulling cases out of nowhere is a different matter," he explained. Hearing a noise from Sherlock, he cut the taller man off. "No, no more of this, it's still my birthday. Now shut up and watch some Michael Caine."

They both settled on the couch to watch. John was thoroughly enjoying himself between the film and reminding Sherlock that he had to keep quiet. They made it halfway through the film before Sherlock fell asleep, his head lolling to one side until it hit John's shoulder. John kept himself very still, not wanting Sherlock to wake up. When he was sure that his flatmate was out, John tilted his head and let it rest against Sherlock's for the rest of the film.

Once it ended, John shifted slightly, turning slowly to frame Sherlock's face with his hands. "Sherlock." He used the tone that would get through any haze Sherlock was in. "You have to wake up long enough to get to bed."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, so John murmured encouragement as he slowly straightened Sherlock's head, knowing that his flatmate's neck would be hurting from the position it had been in. When those stunning blue-for-the-moment eyes opened partway, John tugged Sherlock up to standing and helped to manhandle him to his bedroom. Once Sherlock was laying down, John removed his shoes and socks before pulling the duvet over Sherlock.

"Thank you for a lovely birthday, Sherlock," John whispered before slipping out of the room and upstairs.


	5. Chapter Three

Chapter 3:

When John came down the next morning, he was half-hoping that Sherlock had made breakfast again. He was slightly disappointed that Sherlock hadn't, but there was nothing he could do about it. John put two slices of bread into the toaster and set the kettle for tea, going through his normal routine. Sherlock was laying on the couch in the sitting room, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, reading through some of the case files Greg had delivered last night. John was glad to see that as he sat down in his armchair with his breakfast and the paper; perhaps it meant that he could get a bit of a break today.

He had barely made it past the international section of the paper when Sherlock spoke. "You weren't very close with your family before."

John frowned, looking over the paper at his flatmate. "Not since Afghanistan, no," he replied.

"But, you're close now?"

"Yeah, I suppose. Closer than we've been," John answered, knowing that this conversation was not going to end pleasantly. He should have known from the lack of breakfast that all of yesterday's courtesies were now null and void.

"Something...changed," Sherlock said slowly.

John returned to looking at the paper. "Yeah, good deduction."

John heard Sherlock shift on the couch, presumably so that he was now sitting. "What happened between all of you?" he asked.

"You died," John answered, pursing his lips. "Someone had to-" He stopped himself from completing that sentence. Well, he was an army doctor with an illegal gun. Days had been rough. It was hard to live without your best friend, especially when you knew how easy it would be to stop everything.

"I see," Sherlock replied. But John wasn't sure just how much Sherlock did see. He couldn't possibly understand the crushing feeling of knowing-or thinking-that your best friend was dead. Especially when it was Sherlock, someone who had swept him up in mad dashes and impossible crime scenes, someone who had helped John forget the war.

After a long pause, Sherlock tentatively ventured, "You-I'm glad you had them."

John grimaced, not that Sherlock could see it. He knew very well that Sherlock didn't understand his family dynamics. "Yeah, you should be," he said simply. His stomach growled slightly, but he didn't want to put the paper down and lose the barrier he had between him and Sherlock. Not until he was sure this conversation was over.

"May I ask what happened?"

John rolled his eyes. "I'd say no, but you already did," he replied. John folded the paper, determined to be through all of this as quickly as he could. He looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting up on the couch now, the cold case files abandoned on the coffee table. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?" he asked, and Sherlock shook his head.

"Fine. Since you really want to know, I'll tell you," John snapped, his temper starting to show. "I couldn't come back here, so I moved in with Harry for a bit. It was bloody annoying and she called our parents every night like a damn babysitter to tell them how I was. When I finally left, she came by here every single day to shout at me. Then my parents had me out for Christmas, and I went but I stayed upstairs for almost all of it because I couldn't stand being around everyone with their stupid, pitying looks anymore. Then when Emma had Charlotte, it got a bit better, but I know that everything was orchestrated. I was thirty years old and my family felt like they had to watch me every second to make sure I was fine, and I never was. Happy now?" John asked, leaning back and crossing his arms. He turned away, looking out the window instead of at Sherlock.

"I-I'm sorry, John," Sherlock stammered. No doubt the great detective hadn't thought he'd be getting that as an explanation. John looked back and searched Sherlock for any hint that he was lying. He couldn't find any. They kept eye contact for another minute before John nodded and picked up his tea. "I j-just-well, are you pleased to be close once more?" Sherlock continued after a moment.

John shrugged, rubbing his leg as it twinged with pain. "I guess. I mean, family's family. I can't stand Harry, but Thomas and Mike are good lads, and I don't want to miss any more of my nieces' lives," he answered, once again avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"I'm happy you had someone there for you, had them," Sherlock said after a moment.

John shook his head and stood, grabbing his tea. "I'm so glad you're happy about it, Sherlock," he replied, his voice flat, before he limped out of the room and back upstairs.

Following Sherlock's apparent blunder regarding John and his family, the tension returned to two-two-one-B with a vengeance. John returned to silence and Sherlock to thinking, not wanting to push the line again and risk a repeat of the weeks following his homecoming.

Instead, newspapers and cold case files become the focus of Sherlock's world. Cold cases kept his mind occupied, solving crimes that others failed to, honing his long-neglected skills as an observer. It was the newspapers, surprisingly enough, that enticed him all the more.

The number of strange, unusual, and unexplained deaths reported in the papers had been rising. There were several that were simple accidents, as such things happened; gas leaks, falls, faulty equipment gone wrong. There were disease and age related deaths. It was mid spring, many of the frail and elderly got sick this time of year and not all of them got better. But there were a few, just a few, that no one had any explanation for. No reasons were listed, nothing was said, it was merely stated that so-and-so was found dead here-or-there, but still no one came to him with a case.

Sherlock tried his best to occupy himself with the cold case files, it was fruitless to frustrate himself over what he presumed to be murders but may as well just have been a creation of his mind, as John had pointed out. He hadn't had a _fresh_ case in so long. He felt stale, rusty. Nine and a half months without the work that had once been his entire life was a very long time to not be practicing his trade.

As a result it was taking the world's only consulting detective a surprisingly long time to piece together the cold cases, when he knew that but a year ago he would have breezed right through them. Papers were everywhere, taped and pinned to the walls alongside photographs, forensic reports, witness statements, and scene analyses. The living room almost looked like a crime scene itself. The more private pseudo-case file stayed in his bedroom; a stash of newspaper obituaries. They went as far back as merely a week after his return to Baker Street. He had always kept them, just in case, but now something nagged at the edges of his mind that these were something of importance.

A local dentist, a plumber, a well-known university footballer, a librarian, a dog walker. All dead without explanation. The Yard must be going mad. Sherlock chuckled to himself.

"Oi, what's so funny? It's creepy when you just laugh like that at all your case files. There wasn't even a brilliant 'aha' this time," John called out from his desk chair, where he sat tapping away at his laptop keyboard. Thankfully, John did not sound exasperated but instead actually curious.

Sherlock turned to face him, eyebrows raised. "Simply wondering what the Yard is doing without me. All these crimes lately must keep them running busy," he remarked, careful not to bring up his speculative murder-spree scenario. "Lestrade must be tearing his hair out, left alone with Anderson to do all the work." John smirked at that and went back to touch-typing out his latest blog entry. Sherlock returned to furrowing his brow at the Wall of Murders before flopping down on the couch beneath it and folding his hands in prayer pose beneath his chin.

Silence fell over the flat as Sherlock fell into his thoughts, only to be interrupted moments later by Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs. "Afternoon, boys," she called in her cheery lilting voice, appearing in the doorway with a tray, on which sat a stack of mail and a plate of her famous homemade biscuits. "I've got your mail, and thought I'd bring you up something to nibble on with your afternoon tea."

She took a moment to survey the living room and sighed, knowing exactly what the disaster of papers meant. "Sherlock, look at the mess you've made," she murmured, feigning exasperation but he could hear the hint of delight in her voice. This was what she remembered. She nudged a spot on the coffee table clear of folders and set her tray down, habitually gathering up stacks of papers and straightening up after her strange tennant.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson. And if you would be so kind-"

"Not your housekeeper, dear," Mrs. Hudson cut him off and Sherlock found himself smiling the same fond grin his lovely landlady wore while she tidied his mess. No place on earth compared to this. To Baker Street. He shuddered to think of what it might have been like without Mrs. Hudson. Without John. The cold spread inside him-no, he'd taken care of that.

While she went about her cleaning spree Sherlock leapt up from the couch once more, derailing his dark train of thoughts and grabbing a biscuit from the tray. He began to pace in front of his cold case collection while he nibbled gently on the baked good, brow furrowed in concentration. He didn't like being rusty, and the frustration he felt was thick in the air, though he tried to contain it.

"Talk me through them," John piped up suddenly, and Sherlock turned to face him, almost shocked to find John standing just a few feet away.

"You're stuck," John said simply, "talking helps you think, talk me through it, I'm still more useful than the skull, I promise." A smile twitched the corners of Sherlock's mouth and he turned to the papered wall, gathering the breath to start his whirlwind of explanations.

"Homeless fellow stabbed thirteen times; no family, no friends, no clear motive. This man had no connections to anyone, so why kill him? Young boy missing, taken from his bus stop. No struggle, no suspicious activity in the neighborhood. The boy just disappeared. Taken by someone he knew? To what end? Where did they go? Nothing was asked for, no demands, no ransom, no reason. The boy seemingly vanished into thin air. Woman found dead, body brutalized, barely recognizable, all suspects had valid alibis, but it had to be someone she knew. What warranted such violence? You don't pay that much attention to destroying a person unless you don't want them found, but then why not make sure to remove the ID from the body. It doesn't make any sense! There has to be a reason, but these all run into dead ends." He paused to catch his breath, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a delighted smirk despite his confusion.

"Well, Sherlock, they are called 'cold cases' for a reason," John replied, obviously entertained..

The detective sighed, though his grin did not fade. "Motive, John! Lack of evidence, no leads, that makes cold cases, but motive is always there. Motive is the reason there is a case in the first place. I just need to be able to see it." He rubbed his fingers through his hair roughly, as if he could stimulate his neural functions through his scalp. "I feel like I'm staring it in the face!" He froze, concentrating hard.

His head whipped up suddenly, understanding dawning on his face. "Oh," the word spilled out of him. "Oh!" he exclaimed, rushing forward. He planted a foot on the coffee table, launching himself up and forward until he stood on the couch, hands pressed to the wall as he studied the case file of the brutalized woman.

"Why leave the ID indeed? Oh I should have seen that sooner, it was right there the whole time!" Beaming he spun around and dropped into a squat on the couch, looking up, already prepared to answer the question on his flatmates face. "The brutalized woman, named Rebecca McKinley, was a successful book editor; fairly wealthy by many people's standards. She filed an identity theft case about two years ago. Johanna Robinson, her friend and colleague, turned up dead a few weeks later. Shortly thereafter the identity theft case was pulled and Rebecca McKinley left her neighborhood, leaving her home to be repossessed. Why would you leave the identity on a body you tried so hard to make difficult to recognize? When you want it to be recognized. Rebecca McKinley is dead. Johanna Robinson killed her and adopted her life. She pulled the greatest identity theft of our time."

John stared at him and Sherlock stared back, pride brimming inside him. He was back. He was on the game. It felt so good. "You got all of that...from an ID card?" John asked, his tone a mixture of disbelief and amazement. "Brilliant."

Sherlock stood, smiling happily and stepped down from the couch. "Yes, of course." He laughed softly and took a bite of the forgotten biscuit in his hand. It felt as though he had reclaimed a part of himself, something that had been lost to him in the ten months since his 'fall'. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he selected a familiar but lately untouched number; Lestrade's. He typed out his message.

_One case down. Only a matter of time now. -SH_

Sherlock wrapped up several more before the night was over, placing them in the 'Done' pile with a sense of satisfaction. It wasn't much. It wasn't like he used to be, but it was a step in the right direction. He went to bed that night at John's insistence, citing that rest would improve his mental functions. In the dark he lay with no intention of sleeping, fingers pressed to his chin as if in prayer, thoughts racing.

The obituaries in his wardrobe still tantalized him. These cold cases were just practice. It was only a matter of time indeed before the truth came out. Something was sinister happening.

Cold cases and newspapers had been his focus for the last two weeks, a distraction, but they wouldn't sustain him forever.


	6. Chapter Four

Chapter 4:

It's early, at least for me. Bartending tends to lend itself to erratic sleeping patterns, which is more than fine for me anyway. Getting into the flat is easy; I simply climb up the fire escape and enter through a window _stupid idiot bitch what are you doing you're inviting me here to do this this will be your fault not mine_. Most people don't think about it anyway.

Samantha Thompson _wrote a scathing book on sociopaths sat at my bar and raged about sociopaths I am not a sociopath I feel emotions because now I will kill you _enters her flat and puts away the shopping. I know because I watch her through the crack in her door. She's so stupid she hasn't even realized that there is another living, breathing human in the flat. It doesn't matter. Soon _I will have you I will have your blood on my fingers I will have your pulse in my hands I will trade your breath for my breath_ there will only be one living, breathing human here.

She passes through the doorway where I'm hiding, and it's the easiest thing in the world to step behind her and slam her in the back of her head with one of her own books _fucking pretentious bitch writing a three hundred page novel only to have the killer caught in the end no one will know about your killer_. Samantha Thompson crumbles to the floor, out cold. I toss the book onto her face and pull the old fashioned razor blade out of my pocket. I have to take a moment to inspect her arms and hands, and then decided on the left because she is left-handed after all _left-handed people are more likely to die before right-handed people but that's because the world is made for right-handed people not because left-handed people are more stupid than right-handed people although she is_.

I slam the blade into her at her elbow, pushing through the dense muscle to hit her radius with a lovely _thunk_. Her arm twitches; it's a natural reaction _it's a nerve, he never learned the name of it but God, it makes her whole arm jump almost out of his grip_. Blood spills over, seeping everywhere across her floor. I have to saw a bit, going completely around her arm at the elbow, reveling in the clean sensation of metal through flesh_ it's like a hot knife through butter and it feels impossibly good_.

I pull the razor out once I'm satisfied with the cut, and it leaves me a little hollow inside. I consider licking off the blade to console myself, like I've done for my whole life, but I know it would be a stupid mistake. _So much blood _besides, there's so much blood the smell is _everywhere all over inside me and outside her and making me dizzy _overwhelming me in the best possible way, filling each of my senses. I know I'll be haunted with the memory of the pungent _coppery and salty and tangy it would taste so good I should lick but no NO _smell for days, and I can taste it in his mouth even now from just the odor. It will have to do.

The razor enters her again, this time making the deep cut to the bones at the wrist and circling around _around and around the garden around the world beat around the bush_. Her pulse is gone now; cause of death: exsanguination. It happens to plenty of people _gunshot victims knife wounds razor blades car wreck victims victims victims victims_ mostly people in the hospital or on the street. Isn't it lovely that she got to die at home?

My next cut stretches up her vein from wrist to elbow _straight as an arrow straight blade straight up_ and then I begin the tedious works of prying her muscles from her bone _scrape scrape slide pull tug give wet sound of blood and muscle and blood everywhere_. It takes me long minutes, mostly because every time my blade scrapes against her bone it makes a sound so delicious it causes me to shiver and throw my head back in ecstasy. It would be quicker if it wasn't so lovely, skinning is a skill I've perfected. I do get her whole forearm skin off eventually, and it is pristine. I set it next to her on the floor and use her towel _bathroom, makes sure not the leave footprints because that would be stupid as stupid as she was thank God she's dead thank God someone killed her_ to wipe it clean. I take the stamp from the small backpack I bought and I dip it in her blood a few times before stamping clearly across the disembodied skin 'POETIC JUSTICE.' It makes me giddy, it makes me giggle, it makes me _free_ _flying running not stopping falling in the best way so much better another another soon please God more_.


	7. Chapter Five

Chapter 5:

John Watson was a tolerant man under most circumstances. He could tolerate Harry's drunk dials or bartenders' calls for him to pick her up at closing. He could tolerate screaming, from children or adults. Could tolerate rude people and annoying people.

But what he couldn't tolerate was his flatmate. How he had grabbed the paper from John on Wednesday, positively thrumming with excitement. Sherlock had literally clutched the article on the murder of Samantha Thompson to his chest, and then promptly deduced twenty things about her private life that John had never heard about ("How could you possibly know that she was a lesbian?!" "The curl on her a's, John, pay attention!").

This excitement carried him over into Thursday, when Sherlock decided to pester Greg to get on the case. That day had ended with both men frustrated and taking it out on John, who managed to convince Greg to apply for Sherlock to come back. After the scandal surrounding Sherlock's fall and his exoneration, the Yard was reluctant to have him on active cases again, which meant that Sherlock was more insufferable than usual. John's patience thinned as Sherlock monologued about how the world was full of idiots, how could the Yard be so blind, how do the Yarders manage to tie their shoes (John nearly pointed out that most Yarders wore shoes without laces, but when Sherlock was ranting, it was best not to interrupt). After Sherlock texted Greg fifty-seven times in the span of two minutes, Greg pleaded for mercy.

So that morning, John confiscated Sherlock's phone and spent the rest of the day wandering London. Sherlock responded yesterday by screeching his violin for more than half the day which then led to a bit of a row between them. John had pointed out that Sherlock was acting like a toddler, and Sherlock had retaliated by deducing just exactly how long it had been since John had last had sex. Sherlock had sat at the kitchen table, tinkering with this and that. He caused several small explosions that John was sure were created for the sole purpose of annoying him. When John pointed out that Sherlock was still acting like a toddler, Sherlock simply went back to sawing on his violin. John went upstairs and did everything he could think of to drown out the noise. Eventually he fell into a restless sleep.

When John woke up, he found that he had ripped apart his sheets in the night. John got out of bed, showered and then dressed. He slowly made his bed with new sheets, drawing out his time before going downstairs to face Sherlock. There was nothing for it, though; he was going to need tea. John padded to the kitchen, finding Sherlock awake and pouring over the Wall of Murders. John shuffled into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then popped some bread into the toaster.

"Don't use the sugar in the bowl. Use it from the bag," Sherlock muttered at him. John frowned, but did as he said. He had just settled down at the table for tea and toast when Sherlock's mobile went off in his bedroom. Sherlock went off to answer it and John hurriedly finished his breakfast, guessing that it was Greg calling.

"That was Lestrade; there's been a murder," Sherlock said, coming back into the kitchen.

John nodded and grabbed his jacket from the door. "What's special about this one?" he asked as Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf.

Sherlock smiled and led the way out of the flat. "He wouldn't say. No matter. I'll go, I'll deduce, and then I'll demand to see the body of Samantha Thompson," the taller man said, flagging a cab. John sighed inwardly and bit his tongue to keep from pointing out to Sherlock that the Yard probably wouldn't respond kindly to that. He climbed into the cab after his friend and let silence fall between them. Just ten minutes later, they were getting out of the cab and looking up at a construction site.

"Hang on," John said, frowning. "Isn't this-"

"2-14 Baker Street, yes," Sherlock answered, turning up his collar and walking over to the police line that was surrounding what looked to be a half-unfinished posh business building. "Ah, Sally," he said, coming up behind the sergeant.

"Freak," she said. John narrowed his eyes. He hadn't liked it before when Donovan had called Sherlock that, and now that they were back at a crime scene, he still didn't. It reminded him of children on the playground. "We've done just fine without you for the past few months," Sally said.

"Yes, you did such a good job that we have a serial killer starting to terrorize the city," Sherlock shot back. "Well done, you."

Donovan glared and opened her mouth to retort, but her walkie-talkie flared to life. When she turned to deal with it, Sherlock slipped past her and started up the stairs. John followed, still slow with his cane and more than a little pissed off at Sally. Didn't she know that Sherlock had saved the life of her boss? Didn't she remember clearing Sherlock's name?

When they were about three stories up, the ceiling disappeared. They stepped out into the office building to find Lestrade and a team of people, none of which was Anderson. Instead, Green was on forensics, which meant that Sherlock didn't immediately launch into a tirade.

"Blimey, I didn't think I'd ever get to see you two like this again," Lestrade said. John smiled and looked at Sherlock, who was shaking his head, but John could see the smile in his eyes.

"Well, if you had called me sooner, then we would already be back to the normal routine," Sherlock countered, striding forward and examining the body. It was hanging from a construction crane over the building and looked to be a man.

"Once they're done taking the pictures, my people will lower the crane," Lestrade replied.

Sherlock walked around the building, looking everywhere. "Yes, of course," he muttered. He skirted the edges of the floor, casting about with his eyes opened wide. It was only a few minutes later when the crane roared to life. The body was slowly lowered to the floor in the center of the building. Sherlock and John were immediately there, examining.

"Is that aircraft cable?" John asked, looking at what the victim had been hanged with. Sherlock nodded as he rifled through the victim's pockets. John examined the body and then turned to his flatmate. "Broken neck, death from strangulation, but you knew that already," he said, stepping back and stripping off his gloves.

"Check the universities nearby for a missing student, first name starting with A and surname with W. He's an art major, and he was high on this when he died," Sherlock started, tossing Lestrade a small packet of white powder. "Most likely heroin, but could be any combination of substances," and Sherlock was off again, explaining what college the boy was most likely missing from, where he grew up, where he had walked last in those shoes. John offered proper responses, but more often he just watched Sherlock, here in his element and thriving at last. His flatmate's eyes were alive with excitement and sheer thrill; he was ready to be on the hunt again after so long away.

"Now," Sherlock said, bringing John back to reality, "Samantha Thompson. I believe her case might be related."

Greg looked up from his notepad, raising his eyebrows. "And how do you figure that?" he asked mildly.

John shook his head as Sherlock rolled his eyes. So the crime scenes were linked? God, Sherlock would be insufferable for days. "Two sensational deaths within a week from each other? This killer is smart. He evaded you for a first time and is now on with a second. He hasn't made a mistake yet; and he won't until you put some pressure on him. Let me into the case and I'll point you in the right direction to push," Sherlock said, somehow managing to eloquently lift his left eyebrow. John thought it was a bit of an overkill, but this was Sherlock after all.

"He?"

"Statistically more likely," John answered his friend. He turned back to look at Sherlock, who was looking at him with something akin to pride. John smiled back.

Greg sighed. "Alright, Sherlock, if you can give us any leads. Just come back to the morgue with me."

Any previous happiness rushed out of John's world as he pictured Sherlock, eyes open and unblinking as blood drew lazy lines across his face. The morgue-they'd have to go to Bart's. John didn't know what to do, how to handle this. Dimly, he watched Greg nod before leading the way down the stairs. Sherlock was flying down them with his phone in front of his face, texting rapidly. John stumbled a few steps toward the stairs, unable to coordinate movement for a moment.

He made his way back to ground level to find that both Greg and Sherlock were waiting for him. John took a deep breath and shook his head as he approached them. "I'm not going to the-the morgue," he said quietly so that the Yarders surrounding them didn't hear.

Greg nodded with understanding, but Sherlock looked at him as if he was insane. "What do you mean you're not going? There's a body to examine," Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, it's. I mean. I can't go there." John stumbled over his words, trying to explain. "Not yet, anyway."

"Don't be ridiculous, we won't have another opportunity."

John felt his temper flare. Greg started to drift away from them as John glared daggers at Sherlock. "If I'm being so _ridiculous_ then maybe I shouldn't go anyway." His volume was climbing now, even though he desperately didn't want it to.

"If you're going to shout perhaps you shouldn't. You'll interrupt my thinking," Sherlock replied, his mouth twisting in disdain.

"Oh yes, your thinking, your massive brain. So much better than us morons down here! Sherlock Holmes, so much more advanced than us bloody human beings!" John shouted. He wanted to push and shove Sherlock, punch him again, make him remember that John could still take him out if he wanted to.

Sherlock tilted his head back and John saw the emotionless mask fall into place. "When you _human beings_ insist on being such idiots you leave the machines no choice," he said coldly.

John clenched his fist inside of his jacket pocket. He looked at Greg, who shook his head, and then back to Sherlock. "Fuck off, Sherlock." John shook his head and walked away, leaning heavily on his cane.

Sherlock watched John walk away, fighting the frown he felt threatening to pull at his mouth. He just didn't understand what the issue was. John had examined bodies with him countless times before; what was wrong with this time? He was further put off by the disapproving look Lestrade gave him and he narrowed his eyes when the inspector shook his head. Turning his attention back to his phone he ignored the stares from the Yarders and moved to hail a cab. He wanted a moment alone.

The ride to Bart's seemed to take forever, but Sherlock was grateful for the time to clear his head. He finally had a case, and he was going to get to study the novelist's body. That was what was important.

He had to answer a disgruntled Lestrade's questions about the drugged-out art student found flying from a rooftop crane first. How he knew he was an art student was obvious from the paint stains on his clothes and fingers, and the drawings on his shoes and pants. He'd even done the work and given Sherlock what was likely his initials 'A.W.' printed like a shield in ink on the tread of his shoes. The universities he named were process of elimination: proximity, the knowledge of their offered programs, their tuition costs. History of drug use was obvious from the track marks on his arms and the drugs in his pocket. It was probably why he hadn't struggled. If he was correct about the white powder being heroine, the boy would have been so relaxed and euphoric he probably thought his killer was his best friend.

An hour later, all their files put together and questions answered, Lestrade and Sherlock entered the morgue. Sherlock was allowed to examine Samantha Thompson's body before the police gave up and she was turned over to a funeral home. He was here now, and there would be no giving up.

It was fascinating to finally look at her. Very few details of her murder had actually been released. Someone had broken into her flat, she'd been knocked over the head, and the article had said stabbed. She'd bled to death, that was all they said. What Sherlock saw before him was so much more. The flesh of her left arm had been removed, peeled from the bones beneath, and printed with the words 'Poetic Justice' in her own blood. There was indeed something poetic about it, he had to admit, though he knew everyone else would just find it sick.

It was such a clean cut on her arm, the blade having sliced through the flesh easily. It must have had a very sharp edge to have left such a crisp mark on the bones. He pulled out his pocket magnifying glass, studying the marks more closely.

"Any reports on what kind of blade made these cuts?" he asked, sparing the barest hint of a glance up at Lestrade who stood back, arms crossed over chest.

"Steel blade, strong, flat grind," Lestrade answered flatly. "Likely a military knife or a razor of some kind. Forensics is still trying to narrow down the result."

He made a noise of acceptance and studied the severed flesh instead. He had cut her arm open like one might debone a chicken. The flesh was laid out like a book itself, as though Poetic Justice was the title. Fitting. Then again, that was the whole point, wasn't it? Exsanguination was certainly the cause of death. He had severed an artery; it wouldn't have taken long at all for her to bleed out. She wouldn't have even known anything was happening while she was knocked out. Some might consider that a blessing. The killer had certainly seen it to his advantage.

"I need all the M.E.'s reports, and forensics when they're finished, to add to my case file. There's something here, something between the two murders. Text me when you have them, or when the autopsy is finished on our friend A.W." He shut his magnifying glass with a click, sweeping his way toward the door. He wanted to get out from under Lestrade's disapproving glance as quickly as possible.

It wasn't his fault John was stubborn.

In the cab home he pulled out his mobile, clicking the screen to brightness. His fingers hovered over the buttons, debating sending a message to John. He locked the phone again a few moments later and tucked the device away in his pocket once more.

He stormed into the flat and took the stairs two at a time, stripping out of his coat and scarf as soon as he crossed the threshold. He tossed his phone onto the couch and picked up his violin, screeching the bow across the strings angrily. Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway behind him bearing a tray.

"Yoohoo, Sherlock!" she called out to him and he stopped his screeching to look at her. "I heard you come in so I thought I'd bring up some tea and biscuits. Where's John?"

Sherlock scowled. "I don't know. He left."

Mrs. Hudson's brow furrowed in concern. "Poor dear, I hope he's alright. Did you two have a spat? You were making an awful racket, there."

"I think we did," Sherlock murmured, staring at the window. He wanted to pull aside the curtain and look down on the street, but he knew he wouldn't see John going by.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. "Such a shame. I hope he doesn't stay out there long. This chill's no good for that leg of his, you know."

Sherlock turned to stare at her. He _didn't_ know. He didn't know what bothered John's leg or what made it better. He'd overcome the psychosomatic limp the first time so quickly there hadn't been time to learn. He didn't even know when exactly the limp had come back, or how it had affected John. Mrs. Hudson did. So many things had happened while he was gone.

Two-two-one-B might not have changed, but the people behind its doors certainly had.

"Mrs. Hudson...While I was gone, John didn't stay here, did he?" he asked awkwardly.

Her expression of concern melted into one of deep sorrow and she smiled sadly. Mrs. Hudson had mourned him, had cried over him; he'd been like a son to her and she'd believed him dead. He knew John had been hurt too, obviously, but Sherlock thought he was strong. John needed him so much less than Sherlock needed John.

"I really shouldn't say but...It wasn't good, Sherlock, dear. He left for awhile," she started, "Went to live with that dreadful sister of his. It just...It must have been awful for him. He eventually did come back. I'd kept everything all nice and ready for him, just in case." She handed Sherlock a cup of tea which he quietly accepted, sitting in his armchair while Mrs. Hudson perched in John's.

"He didn't really smile, didn't go out much unless the Detective Inspector made him, mostly kept quiet and to himself up here." Mrs. Hudson sighed, absently stirring her tea. Sherlock had to fight to keep from launching himself out of his chair.

"Sometimes he would go for walks, and just wouldn't come back for a night. Never did know where he went off to." She frowned to herself, her eyes softening as she relived the worry she must have felt. "Those poor homeless people you used to have 'round started to pop by. I think maybe they were checking up on him, looking after for him. After a while he started to take care of them; patch them up, feed them. He seemed a little bit better, then, having something to do."

She paused again, sipping her tea but Sherlock could tell she wasn't done; she was debating with herself on whether or not to tell him something.

He leaned forward, fixing her with his pale gaze. "Mrs. Hudson," he pushed, and she frowned into her tea. "Please," he murmured softly, feeling the strain of the word leave him. He had to know.

She sighed, looking a bit guilty. "He kept all your things. He let me clean up and put some things away, but wouldn't let me touch most of it. I'd catch him sitting here, just staring at your chair some nights. His sister..." she stopped, obviously reaching something particularly delicate. Her mouth sealed shut and she stared into the teacup in her hands.

Sherlock could have screamed. "What about his sister?" he asked, bordering on desperate. She looked at him, hesitating again. "Please, Mrs. Hudson, don't make me beg. What about his sister?"

"His sister would come here, shouting up a storm. He stopped letting her in, but she just kept shouting and cursing at him through the door. He never shouted back, but he threw books or cups, broke a few things. He'd never say a word about it, though. He was just so very quiet for so long." Her voice had dropped off to nearly a whisper, and the cup shook slightly in her hands.

Sherlock cursed himself for being such an idiot. He put down his cup and ran a hand through his hair. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for all the horrible things I put you through. I can't imagine what it must have been like." Empathy was not his forte, but Sherlock could remember all the dark nights he'd faced. He knew grief, but his own was incomparable to that which he'd inflicted. "Mrs. Hudson, I-"

"It's alright, dear. You're here, alive and safe. We all are. That's what's important, hmm?" She stood and pressed a brisk kiss to his forehead. "Well, I'd best get back to my cleaning, dear. Drink your tea, have a few biscuits, you're so thin. He'll talk when he gets back, I know it. Just has to sort his head, is all."

Grabbing the tray she brought, she headed for the stairs. In the doorway she paused, turning back into the room. "Sherlock, dear. If you could, don't tell John what I told you, I don't think he'd be very happy to know I did." The gravity of her words weighed upon him and Sherlock nodded.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you." He watched her leave, a frown settling comfortably on his lips.

He stood, picking up his violin once again and played something soft to quiet the spinning in his head.

John walked to Regent's Park slowly, trying to bide his time. He didn't want to go back to their flat, where Sherlock would inevitably be waiting. The same Sherlock who couldn't understand why John would be a little bit scarred from watching his best friend fall off a building. It was like trying to explain algebra to a two-year-old.

And at the same time, John didn't want to tell Sherlock just how much he'd been hurt; how hard it had been after his death. Living with Harry until that became unbearable, being alone and trapped in Baker Street staring at a stupid chair, knowing everyone was worrying about him and not being able to care much, and bruising. God, the bruising. John felt the sick need to hurt himself well up inside of him so quickly it almost left him breathless.

He sat down on a bench and squeezed his cane hard, willing it to just go away.

John lost track of time as he sat. He shoved each stupid, pointless feeling away as they attacked him. Because really, what did it matter? Everything John had felt in those eight months had been for naught. Everything he was feeling now was just a product of that. And it was all senseless. After all, you couldn't tell a blind man what the stars looked like.

He started limping home, leaning heavily on his cane again. Judging from the position of the sun, an hour or two had passed. John let the sun linger on his face for as long as he could before he walked into two-two-one-b. He was greeted by the violin, which continued through the rest of the day. John was grateful for it; without it, then the flat would have been overwhelmed by terse silence.

When he asked Sherlock what he would like for dinner, the idiot genius didn't answer. John ordered them both curry and decided to go out and get it rather than have it delivered. He did come back quickly this time, if only because he still wanted his curry to be hot when they ate.

John sat down to eat his curry at the table and Sherlock sat opposite him. They ate in silence until Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry for earlier today. That was...insensitive of me." John raised his eyebrows in response. He wasn't sure that Sherlock actually did understand why it was such a big deal for John, but still, John nodded to let Sherlock know he heard him.

He cleaned up after dinner and headed up to bed. It was an early night, but John's leg was killing him and he wanted to get away from Sherlock. John tossed and turned until his nightmares caught up with him again. John woke up shouting several times before deciding to just stay up and read. He briefly considered going downstairs to sit in the living room, but he didn't want to in the middle of the night. It would be too lonely, too crushingly quiet to provide any relief.

He got out of bed at six and took a shower. John made a cup of tea for himself, pouring out a second cup before he remembered. It wouldn't be needed. That second cup had gone undrunk for almost a year now. The first cup of tea John had made after he returned to Baker Street had sat out on the counter, doing nothing but growing mould for two weeks. John didn't have the heart to toss it out. Eventually Mrs. Hudson had spared him the horror and cleaned it herself one day when John was on a walk. She had never said anything to John about it, which John took as a small blessing. It had been such a ritual for him that he sometimes, like today, forgot that there was no one to drink the second cup, and there never would be again.

John sipped his own tea, contemplating Sherlock's cup on the counter. He finally picked it up and turned to dump it in the sink when Sherlock himself walked out of his room. John's hand shook, dumping tea all over the floor. The memories came back in a rush; Sherlock returning, John's own birthday, the crime scene yesterday.

He put Sherlock's mug down and rinsed off his hand in the sink, avoiding what he knew would be scrutiny from his flatmate. John looked over at Sherlock, who had topped off his own tea and stepped over the puddle on the floor. John swallowed hard, trying to will himself into calm as he mopped up the spilled tea with a towel.

He took his mug and sat down across from Sherlock, staring at the skull on the mantlepiece and trying very hard not to look like a man who had just seen a ghost.


End file.
